


To Those Who Are Never Going Home

by MadameHyde



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Annette Fantine Dominic and Felix Hugo Fraldarius's Non-Blue Lions Paired Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheerfully Veering into Gothic Horror, Crest Experiments (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Crest-Related Trauma (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Dark Sylvain Jose Gautier, Don't worry Felix and annette never defected, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Felix Hugo Fraldarius Being an Asshole, Felix Hugo Fraldarius Suffers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Headmaster!Hubert, Hubert von Vestra half-asses nothing, Hubert von Vestra is Bad at Feelings, It's the Garreg Mach Ball y'all, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Mentioned Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Mentioned Leonie Pinelli, Mentioned Marianne von Edmund, Mentioned Sylvain Jose Gautier, Merc!Felix, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Mom!Annette, Netteflix and No Chill, One-Sided Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, TWSITD - Freeform, Years Later, assassin!felix, combo Azure Moon/Crimson Flower routes, no beta we die like Glenn, oh my god they were professors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 119,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22987531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHyde/pseuds/MadameHyde
Summary: “Professor, why do you use such strange fencing terms?”“They’re relics of a lost age,” Felix said, pressing the tip of his longsword into the sandy training ground floor. “Just like me.”-)Fifteen years after Edelgard won her War,  nothing has turned out like it should. Those with Crests are going missing, Those Who Slither in the Dark are thriving, and the Kingdom and the Alliance are dead.In this postwar nightmare, Felix Fraldarius just wants to get out of mercenary work before it kills him, and so he turns to the Officers’ Academy for a quiet job to pass on his skills (since his Crest certainly won’t be going anywhere).He never expected to find the woman he thought he'd lost forever (with a daughter, no less), the youngest child of his sworn enemy in his classroom, or common ground with Hubert von Vestra, long removed from the Emperor's  side--but stranger things have happened.Every moment he spends in Garreg Mach brings Felix closer to the truth--and to those he hoped to never see again. But when TWSITD come to call, the only thing an old Faerghus battleaxe can do is take up arms.After all, only the dead see the end of war.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dorothea Arnault/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 1443
Kudos: 565





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I got attacked by plot bunnies, so have a fic!
> 
> cannot stress enough that this is currently a side project
> 
> partially inspired by Cleanse the Bloodlines, by Unleash the Archers
> 
> If you're enjoying the fic, [come hang out on twitter!](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)

It had been a long time since a new professor had walked the halls of Garreg Mach Officers’ Academy. 

It was, of course, partially due to the new headmaster’s strict standards. Nothing less than the Empire’s finest was going to grace their halls, teach their young ones and shape their minds.

There were holdovers, of course, from before the war. Professors Manuela and Hanneman were awarded Knights’ Crosses for their services to the Empire, and had quickly taken up their posts again after the war, eager to put the bloodshed behind them. Some of the former Knights of Seiros had, after a lengthy amount of questioning and pressure, been allowed to swear allegiance to the Crown and continue their service at Garreg Mach. Alois Rangeld was among them, as was Shamir Nevrand. 

Hubert sighed into nothingness as he looked over yet another dismal crop of résumés. They were in desperate need of a sword instructor, and he knew it. And _still,_ the Emperor threw such worthless fodder at him, claiming they were whom she could spare.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her; it was that having terrible teachers at the Officers’ Academy aided no one.

“Any luck?” came a voice.

Hubert glanced just in time to see his deputy headmaster, Ferdinand von Aegir, stride through the door. He approached with a small tea tray, laden with a coffee press, kettle, and two teacups.

“None,” said Hubert.

“Pity.” Ferdinand set about pouring hot water and, after a moment’s steeping, took a long draught of his tea. “I’m happy to keep pulling double duty, of course, but…”

“It’s not sustainable,” Hubert agreed. “Thanks for the coffee, by the by.”

Ferdinand brightened. “Of course! I figured you could use it before the interviews.” He came around the desk to stand behind Hubert, casting a critical eye over the paperwork. “Anyone promising, at least?”

Hubert made a frustrated gesture. “Former minor nobles—none of even Caspar’s caliber—and someone who claims to have been a mercenary for the past ten years but Shamir has never heard of.”

Ferdinand pulled a face. “I said _promising,_ Hubert.”

A sudden commotion outside the headmaster’s office snapped both men to attention.

“Terribly sorry,” said one of the Imperial Knights outside, “do you have an appointment?”

“Didn’t realize I needed one,” answered a rough voice that carried with it the heavy diction of Northern Faerghus.

Well, what was _formerly_ Northern Faerghus. Even fifteen years out, it was hard for Hubert to wrap his mind around the fact that the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the Leicester Alliance existed no longer. ]

“It’s kind of important,” Northern not-Faerghus added.

The guard-cum-secretary sighed hugely. “May I at least have your name? I can inquire with the headmaster as to his schedule.”

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius.”

Hubert and Ferdinand froze mid-stride. They glanced to each other in open shock. It had been a long time since any of their former classmates-turned-wartime-enemies had graced the halls of Garreg Mach, let alone turned up after the war. A few were back as teachers, but most of the fallen Faerghus’ and decimated Alliance’s soldiers had either perished or vanished.

Perhaps both.

Hubert stuck his head out of his office. “Send him in, would you kindly?”

The years had not been kind to Felix Fraldarius.

The former duke was riddled in visible scars, and there were undoubtedly more that his heavy furs covered. He was still dressed as Hubert remembered him—asymmetrically, and in Faerghus blue—and whatever he had been up to, it apparently precluded basic hygiene. He sported navy scruff across his sharp cheekbones, and his hair had grown wild despite his attempts to tame it into a long, thin ponytail.

But most the evident factor was the heavy black eyepatch over his right eye.

“Holy shit, _Hubert?”_ His good eye fixed on the headmaster, first in surprise, and then consternation. “Didn’t realize the Emperor was here.”

Dimly, Hubert realized he wouldn’t know. “Much has changed. Do come in.”

“Felix!” Ferdinand exclaimed the instant the man was in the room. He was visibly nervous, which was a bit of a feat in a former noble so composed as the last of the von Aegir line. “It has been a while.”

“Hello, Ferdinand,” Felix said sharply.

“Ah, so you, um, remember.”

Felix’s good eye narrowed. “You don’t really forget watching a wyvern rider swoop in to decapitate your father.”

Ferdinand winced. “Yes, um.” He coughed. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“Have a seat, if you would, Felix.” Hubert sharply brought the conversation back around. “To what do we owe this visit?”

Felix folded his arms across his chest, pointedly remaining standing. “I hear Garreg Mach needs a new swordsmaster, and I just so happen to find myself out of a job.”

Silence passed over them.

Felix Fraldarius had been one of the best swordsmen not only in their tragically un-graduating class at Garreg Mach, but also of the entire Faerghus army. He’d cut methodical, bloody swatches through Imperial Battalion after Imperial Battalion, leaving no survivors in his wake. He had been vicious and efficient, impeccably trained and dedicated to his craft. Part of Hubert wanted to dismiss the idea of letting him anywhere near the students out of spite for Imperial lives lost.

But then, the war _had_ been fifteen years ago. And with no king to serve, country to mutiny for, or title to claim, Felix was no more a threat to Edelgard’s crown than any other Faerghusi veteran.

With a sigh, Hubert lowered himself into his desk chair once again, and reached for some parchment. “Your qualifications?”

Ferdinand gave him a confused look. “You’re… considering this?”

“Frankly,” Hubert said, “we’re out of options.”

Felix had never really smiled, near as Hubert could remember, but the one he gave now was unsettling, predatory. Not unlike Prince Dimitri’s had been, in the end. “Graduate of Garreg Mach Monastery Officers’ Academy, veteran of the Imperial War, veteran of several mercenary groups, including Leonie Pinelli’s Cost Effectives and the Red Iron Gang, trained since birth in the old Faerghusi fashion.”

Hubert made short notes on his parchment. It was nothing unexpected, and he was smart enough not to mention the post-war Gautier Rebellion, of which he was also a veteran.

So he had learned _some_ tact in the last decade. That was good. He’d need it.

“Why have you come seeking this position?”

“Like I said,” Felix muttered, “I hear you need a swordsmaster, and I need a job. Seems like a match made in some kind of hell.”

Ferdinand looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Hubert glanced up to find Felix studying him intently. “And why should we hire you?”

Felix shrugged, the gesture of a much younger man. “I’m the best the old Kingdom ever produced. I’m sure you remember.”

Idly, Hubert wondered what it must be like, to no longer have the country you grew up in exist.

“You were quite a thorn in the Emperor’s side,” Hubert agreed.

Felix’s smile grew tight. “I did my best.”

“Are you prepared to teach at an Imperial Institution?” Hubert asked, going off script for a moment. “This is no longer the Officers’ Academy you might remember.”

“Are you prepared to let the Old Guard teach your kids?” Felix fired back.

There was no denying his skill, that much was true. At least, there _had_ been, once upon a time. And Manuela had been the Blue Lions’ professor, back in the day. Perhaps she could steer him in the right direction, as she had for others.

All in, he was probably a better bet than trying to call Jeritza back.

“Are you prepared to submit to a practical interview?” Hubert asked. “I should like to assess your skill.”

“Any time,” said Felix.

“Capital,” said Hubert. “Ferdinand, would you kindly duel our candidate?”

Ferdinand swallowed audibly. “Happy to.”

-)

Garreg Mach Monastery wasn’t what it used to be.

Felix latched onto that fact _immediately_ as Hubert led their little party through the halls. The bones were the same, of course. Felix clearly remembered the way to the training hall, probably without the help of his brain, but there was so much money poured into the place now, it was almost unrecognizable.

The floors were polished to a bright shine, the décor red and black and double-headed eagled. Garreg Mach had always held an austere grandeur, but now it was more grandeur and less austere. Gold gilt littered the hallways, gaudy and glinting in the candelabras’ glow. Gone were the simple oaken tables and chairs of the dining hall and entrance hall, replaced by better versions of mahogany and ash. Gone were the quiet, beige floor tiles—replaced by mosaics of various emperors and battles and that damn double-headed eagle.

It stung, but no more than anything else Felix had lost.

The training hall was, blessedly, the same. Nicer training weapons and sturdier dummies, but the same. Sand was sand, after all; blood was blood.

“Grab a training weapon, if you would,” Ferdinand said to him. “I shall grab one, as well.”

A younger Felix would have said “Whatever.” The older Felix said nothing.

Hubert stood by with a clipboard as Felix and Ferdinand took up duelists’ positions across the sand. In the monstrous hall, to only fight one opponent was strange. There had always been other students around, other people practicing at off hours, others studying magic in corners and the occasional spell snapping off.

It was so, _so_ empty without them.

“En garde!” Ferdinand called.

“ _Hau_ ,” Felix replied, and struck.

He was quick and he was strong; the beat parries and clash of blade-on-blade rang throughout the training courtyard. The psychology of swordplay had always interested Hubert far more than the practicum, and in Felix, he saw a master of both at work.

Felix feinted and parried with practiced ease, batting away Ferdinand’s sword to come around to his now-unguarded side more often than was non-lethal, in any other scenario. His footwork was top-notch, bringing him out of harm’s way long before his sword did. Hubert began counting the times Ferdinand should have been decapitated or run through, but gave up after Felix’s number hit double digits in a two-minute span.

Ferdinand had always favored the lance, but his sword work had always been passable. It had saved both his and his wyvern’s hide more than once during the war when he’d ran out of javelins or his silver lance had been torn from his grasp. But Felix stood head and shoulders above him. It was like watching a child sparring with his father.

Really, there was no contest. It was simply what he’d have to tell the Emperor.

“Enough!” Hubert called over the fighting.

Ferdinand was breathing heavily, but Felix appeared unaffected, checking his training sword for nicks and cuts.

“Fantastic,” Ferdinand breathed. “Truly, Felix, you’re a master.”

“No,” Felix snapped back. “Just a survivor.”

“Well,” said Hubert, “I see no reason _not_ to hire you.” His cadence cut off awkwardly.

“Beyond the fact that I was an enemy in the war?” Felix guessed.

Hubert sighed. “Something like that, I suppose.”

Felix was little fazed by it. “If you’re prepared to let a loser with a major crest teach your kids, I’ll take the job.”

Silence fell again.

So many things clicked into place at the news. Hubert had noticed, of course, Felix’s crest going off frequently, but so did many people’s. Prince Dimitri had been known for breaking things accidentally, even and particularly things that were not easily broken, like doors and steel weapons, and Lysithea had been a true beast of a mage, slinging spells with frightening skill and accuracy as her twin crests shone. Felix’s also hadn’t always gone off in battle, either. One particularly memorable fiasco had occurred when Ingrid Galatea had said something to him at dinner that had clearly pissed him off, because his knife slammed right through his plate, the table, and then his leg. It had likely been a most embarrassing trip to the infirmary. Edelgard had tried very hard not to laugh as Felix had furiously hobbled from the dining hall, refusing his friends’ offers of aid.

Hubert felt an ache in his chest at the memory.

“You’ve a major crest?” Ferdinand asked from over by the weapons rack.

“It isn’t illegal _yet,”_ Felix snapped.

Hubert was taken aback. “Of course it isn’t.”

“You misunderstand me,” Ferdinand said. “I’m merely surprised we never heard, in school.”

“I didn’t care,” Felix said. “I still don’t, really. But plenty of others do.”

“A job is meant to go to the best candidate,” Hubert said, “not merely the one with the crest. In this case, it just so happens to be both.”

“Capital,” Felix said, “where do I sign?”

-)

Back in the headmaster’s office, Felix and Hubert went over the new hire paperwork.

“I’m afraid it’s mostly a stipend,” Hubert was saying at the compensation section, “but room and board are covered by the academy.”

Felix shrugged. “I don’t need much.”

“The teachers’ dorms are located behind the Knight’s Hall,” Hubert said.

“I know,” Felix interrupted.

“You’re welcome to redecorate, if you wish,” Hubert continued as if Felix hadn’t spoken, “but do bear in mind where you are.”

“I don’t have any Faerghusi knickknacks,” Felix barked, “if that’s what you mean.”

Hubert sighed, and set the contract down. “Are you certain you _want_ to work here?”

Somehow, unbelievably, Felix recoiled, and then settled out. “Yes,” he said, roughly. “Continue, would you kindly?”

There had been others, of course. Other former Alliance and Faerghus citizens who had come to teach at Garreg Mach over the years. All had reacted differently to the Imperial takeover, which had naturally expanded over time. Some ignored it best they could and went about their business, while others simply made their rooms the last bastion of their homelands. One particularly memorable professor had been caught late one night ripping tapestries from the walls. He had not lasted long after that.

“You are expected to teach one pen-and-paper seminar a week, the rest practical.”

“Fine,” said Felix. There was plenty of theory to swordsmanship, but no better teacher than experience.

“And you will be teaching all of the students, not merely one house.”

“What are those called now, anyway?” Felix asked. “I’m certain the Blue Lions House is maybe a plaque, somewhere, if anything.”

“The current houses are the Black Eagles, Iron Cranes, and Violet Owls,” Hubert answered. “And to my knowledge, no, there isn’t a plaque.”

That hit Felix harder than he would have expected. The Black Eagle House had, of course, remained; he’d expected that. But in her haste to scrub all memory of the Alliance and Faerghus from existence, Emperor Edelgard had done away with even little things like the Three Houses’ Names. He had no king, no country, no family, and now, not even his damn Garreg Mach House.

The war really had taken everything.

“Figures,” was all Felix said.

“Teachers are expected to patrol at night,” Hubert continued. “We have a schedule.”

_Is this a school, or a prison?_ Felix wondered absently. “I imagine it’s in pairs?”

“Naturally. Beyond that, I recommend you get familiar with your surroundings and fellow staff. You may find some familiar faces.”

Felix snorted. _More Imperials._

“Classes begin for the fall semester next Wednesday,” Hubert said. “You are expected to comport yourself with the utmost professionalism, particularly while parents walk our halls.”

Felix knew an order when he heard one. He bristled at its source, but understood its necessity.

“One last thing,” Felix said. “I’m not learning a whole new terminology system to teach these kids.”

This time, it was Hubert’s turn to shrug. “Personally, I could care less whether the students call it longpoint or middle guard, but recognize, you may be painting a target on your back.”

Felix snorted. “You say that like there isn’t already.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough.”

Felix signed away his life with a flourish, and then shook hands with the Emperor’s right -hand man.

He was only mildly surprised when his hand didn’t come away bloody.

-)

“Did you hear? There’s a new swordsmaster.”

Annette glanced up from her teatime pastry. “Oh! So Hubert finally found one?”

Mercedes nodded, stirring sugar demurely into her own teacup. “Apparently, he’s incredible. Ferdinand wouldn’t stop talking about it at lunch.”

“That’s good,” Annette said. “We’re in desperate need.”

The staff had dwindled over the years, and she and Mercedes had watched others come and go with mixed sadness and relief. Some of the teachers had been truly talented, and everything was just far easier fully staffed. Some were quiet Faerghusi refugees, like they were, and having someone who understood you around was a balm for the weary soul. Others were angry, and perhaps rightfully so, but it never got any easier watching “traitors” get executed on the front lawn. Still others had been awful teachers and even worse coworkers. Those, she couldn’t wait to see leave.

It was so strange, being an expatriate of a country that didn’t exist. All these years hadn’t made it any easier.

“How is Alessia? Will she be starting with the other little ones, this year?” Mercedes asked, jerking Annette away from the dark place to which her thoughts had turned.

“Yes, naturally.” Annette glanced over to where the Monastery children were picking dandelions. “It will be a relief to have her in full day classes.”

Mercedes smiled. “Whatever will we do with all of our free time?”

Annette laughed. “Maybe I’ll be able to get back to studying. I was so close to Abraxas for a while, there.”

“I’m sure you’ll…” Mercedes cut herself off, midsentence.

“Mercie?” Annette glanced over to her best friend of many years, only to find her staring, slack-jawed, at something over her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She squinted, and then her soft, violet eyes widened. “FELIX!” Mercedes bellowed, bolting out of her chair.

Annette spared her daughter one quick glance before hurrying after Mercedes. Her heart was caught in her throat. After all this time, the Fall of Fhirdiad, the Gautier Rebellion, the intervening years… could it be that another of the Blue Lions was alive?

The man Mercedes headed towards certainly _looked_ like Felix, give or take. His hair was much longer now, his clothes much more worn and tattered. And—Goddess preserve him—he had somehow _lost an eye!_

His good one widened at their sight, his jaw going slack. He stopped walking, and it took Ferdinand a few paces to realize this. The horsemanship professor opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted when Felix said, “Mercedes? _Annette?”_

Mercedes crashed into him with the biggest, most motherly hug Annette had ever seen. Annette got there a moment later, latching to his other side. She felt a little awkward beneath both Felix’s arm and Mercedes’, but held onto their old friend, classmate, and ally as tightly as she could.

He _seemed_ real. Solid, warm, and _very much alive._

A startled “Oof!” burst from him.

“I can’t believe it!” Annette said. “ _Felix?”_

“Hey,” he grunted. “ _Ribs.”_

“Oh!” Mercedes was the first to detach, tears glinting at the corners of her eyes even as she launched into her healer spiel. “Are they bothering you? Were you injured recently?”

“No,” Felix got out, “you two just _winded_ me.”

Annette giggled as she detached from him. She couldn’t help it, really. “Didn’t you once take on a Titanus at full gallop?”

“No, _Sylvain_ did,” Felix said with an annoyed huff. “I’m what _felled_ a Titanus at full gallop.”

“ _Ladies_ ,” Ferdinand said, a tinge of warning in his voice. He flicked a glance towards the Knights’ hall.

Annette and Mercedes both nodded to him, and Felix got the sense he missed something.

“We’ll have to have tea and catch up,” Mercedes promised.

Gears were still whirring in Annette’s mind. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but the one at the forefront of her mind was, “What are you doing here, though?”

Felix shot her that lopsided grin that had, once upon a time, made her heart flutter. Annette was both pleased and dismayed to find that it still did. “I’m the new swordsmaster,” Felix said.

It barely processed in Annette’s mind. _Felix, a teacher?_ He hardly even had the patience for his friends; the students would drive him up a wall. Although, she knew, war and post-war changed a person.

She knew it too well.

“Mama!” called a small voice. “Auntie Mercie!”

Annette turned to see her daughter barreling towards them. She was a rambunctious girl of eight winters, with fiery red hair like Annette’s, but soft grey eyes like her father. She was growing into a headstrong little mage, and Annette couldn’t be prouder. Her heart was never so full—of a great many things—than when interacting with her daughter.

“Can I go play with Charlotte?” Alessia asked. “Her mama says it’s okay.”

Annette dropped to a crouch a little ways away from Mercedes and Felix. She first glanced over Alessia’s shoulder to confirm that Charlotte and her mother were indeed standing over near the tea table, and then asked, “Have you finished your chores, little one?”

Alessia nodded. “Uncle Alois says so.”

Annette smirked. “He did, did he?”

Alessia nodded again, this time impatiently.

“Alright—but hold on!” Alessia stopped mid-stride, and Annette got to her feet., brushing dirt off her skirts as she did so. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Annette turned back to the adults. “Alessia, this is Felix Fraldarius. He’s an old friend of your mama’s and your auntie’s.” She drew in a deep breath. “Felix, this is my daughter, Alessia Dominic.”

His good eye widened in shock, but he quickly recovered. Just like on the battlefield. _Goddess,_ was it good to see him. “How do you do, Alessia?”

“Hello,” said Alessia shyly, hiding behind Annette’s skirts.

“ _Alessia,”_ Annette said sternly. She glanced over to Felix. “Sorry. I swear, I don’t know where she gets her manners from.”

But Felix had crouched to her daughter’s level, joints popping even as he did so. “It’s the eyepatch, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

Alessia nodded, and Annette was _mortified._ “Alessia! We do _not_ point out things like that!”

“It’s okay, Annette.” Felix’s good eye flicked to her, just as piercing as ever. “Happens all the time. Kids don’t know what to do with it.” He straightened back up to his full height.

“Hello, Miss Alessia!” Ferdinand said. “How fare you this fine day?”

She giggled. “I’m well, uncle Ferdinand.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow at Annette, who shrugged. “She calls most of the professors here aunt or uncle,” she offered. “At least, the ones who have been here a while.” A little louder, she added, “What do we _say,_ Alessia?”

“Oh!” The little redhead seemed to remember. “And how are you, mister Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand gave that annoyingly noble laugh of his. “Quite well, thank you!”

“Tell Charlotte’s mother I say hello,” Annette said to Alessia. “And be back in time for dinner.”

“Okay!” Alessia called, and bounded off.

For a moment, the adults were silent.

Then—

“Cute kid,” Felix offered.

“She’s our little ball of sunshine,” Mercedes said fondly. “Anyway, Felix, I’m serious. We really should all catch up over some tea before classes start.”

“Let me know when you’ve got a minute,” Felix said. “I’ve been told to get some new clothes because _apparently_ mine won’t do.” He glanced down himself, but all he really did was prove his point. “But other than that, I’m free.”

Annette giggled. “Mercie and I have a good tailor in town. We can get you her name.”

“I am happy to assist, as well!” Ferdinand said.

“Unnecessary,” Felix grunted at him.

Annette winced, and Mercedes shut her eyes to the grief. They both remembered hearing of the fall of Arianrhod and Duke Fraldarius long before Felix had joined them for the Blue Lions’ last stand in Fhirdiad.

Ferdinand deflated slightly. “Well, um. Annette, Mercedes, we shan’t keep you.”

“We don’t mind,” Mercedes said blithely. “But I’m sure Felix has had a long road here.”

Felix gave a hoarse, barking laugh. “You have no idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Annette Brings dinner

The dorms of Garreg Mach were almost exactly as Felix remembered them—standard issue bed, desk, dresser, and bookshelves built into the back wall. Ferdinand had found some clean sheets for him, and, after making up his bed, Felix had deposited his traveling pack on the dresser, kicked off his boots and shrugged off his road-worn coat, and flopped down on what had to be the first proper mattress he’d seen in months.

His back cried out at the fluffy surface, and Felix realized that, perhaps, he was getting too old for the ‘sleeping on the ground’ shit. Although, if he managed not to make a terrible professor of himself, he might not ever have to. At least, not much, anyway.

With a sigh, Felix stared up at his ceiling. It was getting on late afternoon, and, judging by the schedule Hubert had given him, mealtimes were the same as they’d ever been at Garreg Mach. Whether they called it the monastery or not, some things just never changed.

He wondered absently if the students were still expected to take on chores like kitchen duty and stable cleaning, or if all the money the Empire had poured into this place suddenly made that beneath them. Money had to come from somewhere, after all.

And Mercedes and Annette were here! The only faces he would have welcomed more belonged to the dead, now. He wondered how Mercedes managed in a _former_ monastery, if were was as religious as she’d ever been, if she’d go back to big-sistering him like she had when they were kids. She’d let her hair grow long again after the war, and beyond a few more worry lines, seemed the same Mercedes she’d ever been.

And Annette… _Goddess,_ Annette. He kicked himself every day for not saying more when he’d had the chance, not looking harder for her in Fhirdiad after the war and before his and Sylvain’s desperate rebellion. It seemed like she was getting along just fine, what with a daughter and a teaching position. Motherhood and professordom suited her, he’d decided when they’d spoken earlier. She seemed happy here. He hadn’t noticed a ring on her finger, but that could mean any number of things. Annette had always been clumsy.

And it didn’t do him any good to be thinking like this, anyway. There was clearly _someone,_ if a child existed, and Felix had been as presumed dead as the rest of the Lions. She hardly could have been expected to wait on him.

Still, it stung. Irrationally, irritatingly, stung.

Felix only meant to shut his eyes for a few minutes at most, but the next thing he knew the sun had gotten low in the sky and someone was pounding on his door.

Grumbling, he went to open it, only to find Annette herself standing there with a plate of food from the dining hall.

A woman grown with a child of her own, and _still_ the word that jumped to mind when Felix saw her was _cute._ Everything about Annette had always been cute—her silly songs, her petite stature, her laughter, her deep concern from the rest of the Blue Lions—and even as she matured, it had remained. Her hair was the same fiery red, though now tucked into a loose braid, and her eyes were the same soft blue-grey, albeit now ringed with tired black.

“Mercedes wondered if you’d fallen asleep,” she said. “I brought you dinner, just in case. Mind if I come in?”

Wordlessly, Felix removed himself from the doorframe to let her in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Whoa, there’s a lot of dust in here,” she commented, setting the plate she’d brought for him on the desk. “I’ll show you where the cleaning supplies are tomorrow.”

He meant to say “Thanks,” but it came out, “Where’s your daughter?”

“Mercedes has her,” Annette said. “She’s been a _goddessend_ in all this.”

Felix blinked a few times, uncomprehending the math that didn’t add up in his mind. “And where is her father? Not the sort too useless to change a diaper and calls parenting ‘babysitting’, I trust?”

Annette laughed, but it was ringed in sadness and sounded nothing like the Annette he remembered from school, or even the war. “It, um, didn’t work out. But it’s okay!” she hastened to add the second half. “Really, it’s fine.”

Felix folded his arms across his torso and leveled her in a _look._

“Ooooh, don’t start with that!” Annette protested. “You’ve only just gotten here!”

“Wondered if it was still effective, what with the one eye, and all.” Felix finally lowered himself into the creaky desk chair and accepted the fork Annette had laid on the desk.

“Can I ask what happened?” she asked, lowering herself to sit on the end of his bed, given the lack of chairs. It groaned under her weight. “To your eye, I mean.”

Felix turned his chair a bit so that he wasn’t talking behind himself. “Took a Thoron to the face,” he grunted. “Miracle I didn’t lose my whole face, but we had some quality healers in Leonie’s gang.”

He barely registered Annette’s gasp as he poked at the meal she’d brought him. It was Enbarr’s famous two-fish sauté, and the heavenly smell of butter and garlic slammed into him the moment he put his face near it. After surviving on whatever he could hunt and grill over an open flame for so long, Felix had to make a conscious effort not to inhale the whole plate, it was so good.

“How long ago did that happen?” Annette asked, much more softly now.

Felix had to think back. “Five years, I think? Time bleeds together on the road.” He ate another few bites of fish, and _finally_ had the good sense to add, “Thanks, by the way.”

Annette beamed, and suddenly, her energy was back. “You’re welcome!” She dropped her voice to add, “We Blue Lions need to stick together, one way or another.”

Felix’s sad, lopsided smile was back. He felt it on his face. “All fucking three of us.”

Annette sighed. “So it’s confirmed, then? About Ashe?”

“He was in the rebellion, Annette.”

A moment of silence for the dead passed between them.

“I should have known,” she said bitterly. “A noble knight through and through.”

Felix was quiet just a little too long before shoving more fish in his mouth for Annette to be even remotely comfortable with it. She leapt to her feet, coming to stand before him. “What do you know?”

He shook his head, and stubbornly ate another bite.

“You’ll run out of fish before I relent,” Annette warned him.

“I’m aware,” Felix said hoarsely.

Annette, inexplicably, laughed at that.

“Please,” she tried, “tell me?”

Later on, Felix would say it was the “please” that did him in. Seriously, who had _manners_ in a mercenary company? He wasn’t used to dealing with them.

He swallowed the bite he’d just taken to buy himself some time. “He didn’t suffer. Not really. But by the end, Ashe…” It was hard to convey the loss of the bright, knightly boy without admitting he’d been lost well before he died.

“I see,” said Annette, quietly. “Thank you.”

Something occurred to Felix. “Is Ashe…?” _Damn_ , how the hell did one ask this even remotely delicately?

Mercifully she seemed to understand. “No,” Annette said, quietly. Knowingly. “He isn’t Alessia’s father. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not discuss it.”

It wasn’t, but, “I don’t mean to press.”

“I know.” Annette laughed that sad-ringed laugh again, and Felix wanted nothing more than to snap her out of it. “If you wanted to press, you’d just do it.”

He snorted. “Guilty as charged.”

She was at least smiling again, albeit softly. That was good; that was progress. That was more like the Annette he knew.

Had known.

“It’s good some things don’t change, at least,” she said.

“What, like you and Mercie?”

A real smile, now. “Exactly.” It fell just as quickly as she recalled, “I’m really sorry about Sylvain, Felix.”

It was still a javelin to the gut, even after all this time. A physical ache where his best friend should be. “Don’t be,” Felix said. “You didn’t do shit.”

She wasn’t, after all, Her Imperial Majesty.

“And Ingrid, too,” Annette said. “I… well, I can’t imagine.”

“Don’t,” Felix barked. He winced, and added, softer, “Just, y’know, be thankful for what you’ve got.”

“I try that,” Annette said. “Some days are better than others.”

Felix nodded. He knew the feeling.

“So, why _are_ you here?” Annette asked.

“Was dinner your excuse for an interrogation?” Felix asked.

“What? No! I just…” Her face caught up to her brain, and it scrunched up in consternation. “Wait a minute—you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“No,” Felix drawled, drawing the word out and layering sarcasm over it.

Annette put her hands on her hips. “Ugh, you absolute _fiend!_ I was going to say I missed you, but you know what, _I don’t think I did!”_

She held his gaze for a long moment, and then, as if on cue, Felix burst into laughter—deep, bellyaching laughter, the likes of which she’d never heard before or during the war.

When he finally tapered off, with a wheeze and a rough hand to his eyes, Felix muttered, “Holy shit, I haven’t laughed so hard since Sylvain died.”

Annette reached out to pat his knee, but Felix jerked away before she’d made it anywhere near him.

Hurt crossed her face, and Felix said, wincingly, “Sorry. Habit.”

He had never _liked_ physical contact, of course, but this was… something else. Something worse. “You let Mercie and I hug you earlier,” Annette pointed out.

“You _ambushed_ me!”

“She shouted for you!”

“And I was supposed to guess it was Mercedes?”

Annette huffed, but relented. “That’s fair, I suppose.”

Felix took another bite of fish, and silence consumed them.

Annette sighed. “You know, we thought… well, when no one could find you after the Battle of Fhirdiad, we…”

Annette couldn’t even finish the sentence, shutting her eyes against the awful memory. She had combed the city for days looking for him, and Ashe, and Dedue, and Sylvain, and anyone else she could possibly think of. She found Dedue and Ingrid among the dead at Dimitri’s feet, but the rest had been declared MIA.

There had been nothing else she could do without risking her own life.

“I was driven out of the city by the cavalry,” Felix said, far more gently than was his wont. “By the time Sylvain found me, the city had fallen, so we rode for Gautier. Where were _you?”_

“Mercie and I retreated to the School of Sorcery.”

It had been a stroke of luck that one of their old professors was still teaching there when Fhirdiad fell. The woman had immediately ushered Mercedes and Annette into her room, dyed their hair brown, and told them both they were the new Faith and Reason teachers, respectively.

“Fucking brilliant,” Felix said, with genuine warmth. “They’d never give you up.”

“They didn’t,” Annette said, and it was tinged with fondness. “The only reason we left was because of Cornelia. Mercedes and I came to Garreg Mach to avoid her.”

“Not too many other places left for us Faerghus expatriates,” Felix said.

“Is that why you’re here, too?”

He nodded, looking grave in the growing twilight. “One can only hop from mercenary band to mercenary band for so long.”

There was something else she needed to tell him. “I wanted to join Sylvain in Gautier Territory,” Annette told him, her voice pitched very low, even in the privacy of Felix’s room. “Or whatever the hell they’re calling it now.”

Felix waved her off. “It was a losing battle, and we all knew it. But what else was left but to try?” He paused, a grim look crossing his face. “ _Who_ all was left to try?”

Annette grimaced, and this time when she reached out, she paused first to let Felix know she was there. He started anyway, but reached out to clasp her hand after a moment.

“It’s good to see you, Annette,” he said, and his good eye was alight with genuine warmth.

“You, too,” she said, squeezing his hand. “There were rumors, of course, but we honestly thought you were dead this whole time. It’s surreal.”

“I’m here.” He squeezed back, and then let go and got to his feet. “You drink?”

“Beg pardon?” Annette spluttered.

“Alcohol,” Felix elaborated, digging through his pack for something. “Do you still drink?”

Annette laughed. “Once from Faerghus, always from Faerghus.”

“Good.” He retrieved what he was looking for—a silver flask embossed with the Fraldarius crest. “Don’t have any glasses, but…” He held it out to her.

Annette eyed it warily. “This is dangerous to have.”

“For the whiskey? Or the Crest?”

“The _Crest_ , you insufferable bastard,” Annette said. “How could it be the whiskey? Manuela still works here, for the Goddess’ sake.”

Felix snorted. “Do I detect some _judgement?”_

“We knew it as students,” Annette argued, “but somehow, knowing as fellow staff is so much worse.”

“Ever occur to you _she_ might be that much worse?”

“A few times,” Annette admitted, and took the flask. It had been a long time since she’d seen a Crest that wasn’t her own, and it left an aching hole in her chest that she couldn’t quite name. “What shall we toast to?”

“To those who are never going home,” Felix said.

“ _Prost,”_ said Annette, and she took a swig. The whiskey burned down her throat, strong and smoky, and her face twisted.

“So what’s the timbre, here?” Felix asked her.

Annette’s brow furrowed as she handed him his flask back. “What do you mean?”

Felix made a general gesture around them before taking his own slug of whiskey. He didn’t so much as twitch at the brutal taste. “Here,” he said, again, “Garreg Mach. What’s it like now?”

Annette considered her answer as Felix wrapped up his contraband flask and put it away again. She wondered how it had survived so long, through all the post-war purges. Most likely the same way Felix had, and it was probably on his person most of the time.

“Mum’s the word,” she finally said. “We don’t give away that we were in the war, and nobody asks us about it. Can’t hide that we’re from Faerghus, though.”

“The accent gives it away,” Felix agreed, sounding distant. “And your magic?”

Annette shrugged. “Mercie and I learned at the School of Sorcery. There’s no mistaking it, or hiding it, so we don’t try to. I’d imagine you’ll be the same way with swordsmanship.”

Felix fell into his chair again. “I already warned Hubert I’m not relearning an entire school of thought for this shit.”

“He wouldn’t have asked you to,” Annette said. “He’s surprisingly levelheaded, most of the time.”

“I’m surprised the Emperor lets him so far off her leash,” Felix said.

Annette made a face. “That’s… not exactly it.”

Felix’s brow furrowed, and he hunched forward, nearly crowding Annette’s personal space, now. “She isn’t _here,_ is she?”

Annette immediately shook her head. “No, of course not. She’s in Enbarr, I’d imagine. She visits for the Winter Ball and that’s usually it.”

“Then what am I missing, here?”

“I think she sent him away,” Annette said. “I’ve never managed to get out of him why.”

Felix’s eyebrows raised. “That’s interesting.”

“It’s unsettling, I think,” Annette said. “But I suppose there’s no need of a war dog when there’s no war.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Felix muttered, scratching at the back of his neck.

“The students are mostly okay,” Annette offered. “Some stuck up brats, but most of them are good kids.”

Felix released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. “That’s… good.”

“Most of them want to be here,” Annette said, “which helps a ton.”

Felix grimaced. “And the ones that don’t?”

“Official policy is ‘do what you can,’” Annette said, “but I say, fail ‘em. If they don’t want to work, they’ll reap their own consequences.”

Felix’s grin was back, but it was predatory now, and Annette was mildly disconcerted. “Capital. All I needed to know.”

“Don’t make yourself a target, Felix,” Annette warned. “Hubert may be levelheaded most of the time, but his patience is thin.”

Felix smiled that same, crooked smile, but this time it was so sad it physically hurt Annette’s lungs to look at. He had always been so handsome, and even with an eyepatch and more scars, Annette thought so. But moreover, he’d always been her friend, and watching his pain hurt in ways worse than her own.

“’Nette, ‘Nette,” he said, “I’ll always have a target.” He gestured over to where he’d hidden his flask.

To where his Crest lay hidden amongst whetstones and dirty laundry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, come hang out with me on twitter for extra nonsense--@madshatter1


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ignatz teaches Felix how to teach, and Hanneman takes a nasty fall.

The students were whispering amongst themselves when Felix strode into his first class that year. A hush fell across the classroom as he strode up the rows of desks, announcing, “I am Felix Hugo Fraldarius, whom you will refer to as nothing less than Professor.” He reached the desk, and turned to face them.

Some ten-odd faces started back at him, with various emotions displayed. Most appeared taken aback at their new swordsmaster, if not outright intimidated. A few looked bored.

They would learn.

“Good morning, Violet Owls,” Felix added from behind his desk.

“Good morning, Professor Fraldarius,” they chorused back.

Good. At least they had some manners.

“You will attend this seminar every Monday beginning next week,” Felix continued, “and the rest of the week will be spent in practicum. I expect everyone at the training grounds when class begins, or it’s laps for all of you. Am I understood?”

Tittering spilt across his classroom. He caught the words _old Kingdom_ more than once.

“ _Correct_ ,” Felix barked, rolling up the sleeves of the new shirt Hubert had all but forced him to purchase, “I would be from Faerghus, were it still here.”

The children seemed taken aback that he would admit it so openly.

“Am I understood?” Felix pressed.

“Yes, Professor Fraldarius,” his class chorused back.

“Good. Now, before I begin the lesson, I have an announcement. Tomorrow and Friday I will spend dueling each of you.” For the third time, he surprised them—but this time, Felix broke into a grin. “Can’t very well teach you without knowing where you stand. Signs ups will be on the door after class. You will have a free period, minus your duel. Clear?”

Nods, and a few “Yes, sir"s.

“Good, now. Take out your notes; we’ve work to do.”

Felix spent the rest of the period explaining the basics—outlining the three basic kinds of attacks, the various cuts, parries, and ripostes. He wrote the undoubtedly unfamiliar Faerghusi words on the chalkboard, and occasionally drew his sword to illustrate some mechanic or other. His students took surprisingly furious notes, given that the only things new to them should have been the terms.

It was fine; this was fine. He had all year to break them of their bad habits.

-)

_This is not fine_ , Annette lamented as her second class of the day filed out of her classroom.

Ferdinand had approached her after the all-staff meeting this morning, before classes had properly begun, and told her that their new reason hire had run off, and so it was up to her and Hanneman to split teaching reason for all years, all houses—and he was well beyond the age where he should be straining himself. She had tried not to groan, and succeeded in that, but done a poor job of masking her facial expression.

“I know it isn’t ideal,” Ferdinand had said. “But Hubert is confident you’ll be able to handle it.”

Annette had sighed. “Tell him I’ll speak with Hanneman this afternoon.”

Ferdinand had nodded, given her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, and then departed.

She had only taught two proper classes, and already, Annette was exhausted. Alessia had been too excited for her first day of school to sleep last night, and, given that she slept below Annette in a trundle, had kept her mother awake all evening.

It was, mercifully, now lunch hour, and Annette resolved to find something to eat and maybe some coffee to help push through her afternoon classes. She gathered her things into her bag and swept off towards the dining hall.

Idly, she wondered how Mercedes’ and Felix’s first days were going. Mercie probably already had her classes wrapped around her little finger; it never took her long to endear herself to her students. Felix, though--she had genuinely no idea how he would conduct a class. She hoped the students weren’t overwhelming him.

She made polite chitchat with Alois as best she could as they waited in line for lunch. He was difficult to chitchat with, and far easier to end up an audience member for, but she managed.

Her mind wandered towards the coming year. Professor Hanneman really was getting on in years; he really should have retired a good five years ago. He simply refused to let his research fall to the wayside, and what with Linhardt off doing Goddess-only-knew-what, they really wasn’t anyone to take him his mantle. Professor Manuela could try, but she was a Faith-based caster, and reason, to put it delicately, had never been her strong suit.

The same went for Linhardt, come to think of it.

“Whoa there, Annette!” Alois’ booming voice cut into her train of thought. “Why so glum? I thought that joke was pretty good…”

He looked like a kicked puppy, and Annette tried very hard not to laugh. “Sorry, Alois. My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?”

“Goddess have mercy,” drawled a voice from behind them, “don’t let him repeat it.”

“Felix!” Annette exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He cocked an eyebrow and jerked a thumb towards Alois, meaning apparent.

“ _Felix?”_ Alois repeated. “Felix Fraldarius?”

“The only.”

For a moment Alois could only stare in slack-jawed shock. But then wrestled Felix into the biggest bear hug Annette had ever seen.

“Put me down, dammit!” Felix growled.

Annette couldn’t help but giggle. “You look like an angry cat.”

“I can’t _believe_ it!” Alois said, completely ignoring his orders. “Another of the professor’s dear students has returned!”

“The Queen-Consort’s, Alois dear,” came another voice from behind them in line. “And seriously, put the man down. He looks about ready to pop off a spell.”

“Debating it,” Felix got out between gritted teeth.

“Or a blood vessel,” Manuela added.

“Apologies,” Alois said, although he laughed right through it. “It’s so rare to see any…” He trailed off as he set Felix back on his feet.

“Any of my old homeroom?” Manuela inputted tactfully.

“Yes! Exactly.”

“There are three of us,” Felix said dully. “’Course it’s rare; the odds are shit.”

They had barely joined Mercedes and the lancemaster—a tall, lanky woman by the name of Sabine—with their meals when the headmaster swept in.

Annette had never found Hubert particularly intimidating, back in school. He was creepy, certainly, but he was so soft around Edelgard, and they’d frequently had reason classes together. It was hard to be intimidated by someone you’d seen passed out atop a stack of library books at two in the morning while studying for finals.

The war had been different, though. He’d been an enemy general, then, blowing up portions of her battalions with Dark magic that left ozone in its wake. Anxiety had danced in her stomach at the thought of dueling him; mage’s duels always came down to a split second, after all.

As the headmaster, he still favored dark clothes and heavy cloaks, even in Garreg Mach’s balmy climate. (Of course, she could just be saying that, having grown up in Faerghus. What even was ‘balmy,’ when you’d grown up with six months of winter, anyway?)

“Hubert’s in rare form today, eh?” came a soft voice from over Annette’s shoulder.

“Wonder what’s pissed him off,” Annette mused.

“It couldn’t possibly be classes,” Mercedes said. “We’ve only just begun.”

“Donors, maybe?” Alois offered. 

“That makes more sense,” Mercedes said, and then she titled her head in concern. “Ignatz? Is everything alright? You look as though you’ve positively seen a ghost.”

The archery professor’s face had grown sickly pale. “Felix Fraldarius?” he said softly, setting down his tray far more gently than the rest of them had. “Is that really you?” He was leaning across the table, now, squinting through his thick glasses. 

Felix cocked an eyebrow. “Am I going to have to do this every time I run into anyone?”

“Aha!” said Ignatz. “It _is_ you! Marvelous!”

“I was rather surprised Hubert didn’t announce you at the staff meeting this morning,” Mercedes said to Felix.

His fork paused partway to his mouth. “There was a staff meeting?”

Alois burst into guffawing laughter, but Annette said, under it, “We’ll come get you next time.”

Felix gave a funny little salute and went back to eating.

“Is that the Pinelli one-two?” Ignatz asked.

Felix’s good eye widened. “If you tell me you were a merc with her band for _any_ amount of time, Ignatz, I will lose my shit.”

“Of course I wasn’t,” Ignatz said with a small laugh. “Do I look live I’d survive mercenary work?”

“My point.”

“ _Felix!”_ Annette said. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

“First of all,” Felix argued, “he said it.”

“It’s alright, Annette,” Ignatz told her. “We all have our strengths.” He turned back to Felix to add, “I used to run supplies for them in…” He came up short. “…you know, Northeastern Adrestia.”

Silence fell. 

_Northeastern Adrestia,_ they called it now. Like it wasn’t the fucking Leicester Alliance with a new coat of paint.

“Surprised I never saw you,” Felix said after a moment.

Ignatz shrugged. “I usually only met with Leonie.”

“That’s convenient.” Felix turned back to his meal, annoyance buzzing in the back of his skull.

Alois cocked his head, as if to ask a question, but Ignatz had turned a brilliant red.

“It’s not nice to imply things, Felix,” Alois gently chastised. 

“I’ve implied nothing,” Felix pointed out. “Ignatz, on the other hand, has implied many things.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Mercedes told him. 

Felix snorted and continued tucking in, and they ate in silence for a blessed moment. 

Then Ignatz asked, “So how long have you been back?” 

Felix slammed his fork down. “Four Saints, will you people _let me eat?”_

Ignatz recoiled at the outburst, and just as Mercedes was just about to lay into Felix, it dawned on Annette: “When was the last time you had a meal with friends?”

Felix blinked a few times, annoyance falling away from his features. “Probably when you snagged me dinner, that first night I was here. But before that, I don’t know.”

Mercedes deflated, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. “I’m sorry, Felix.”

His good eye pinned her where she sat. “For what? Did it to myself.”

-)

“Is teaching always going to be this exhausting?” Felix asked Ignatz as they sat by the fishing pond later that afternoon. The archer had kindly offered to help Felix with his lesson plans, and Felix wasn’t about to turn down expert aid. 

Ignatz gave a gentle laugh. “It gets better, but some days will always be like this.”

Felix harrumphed and leaned back against the bench. He cast his gaze across the plaza as Ignatz continued reading through his haphazard lesson plans, making notes and markings as he went. Students were coming and going through the plaza, on their way to the greenhouse, perhaps, or the dorms. They laughed and chatted, not a care in the world. 

His heart twisted painfully. It didn’t feel so long ago that it had been Ingrid chasing Sylvain across this plaza, shouting after him for this mistake or that remark. Whether Felix had been on Ingrid’s side or Sylvain’s typically depended on the day.

The breeze kicked up again, and Felix made a face as it scraped across his face.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get my hands on a straight razor, would you?” he asked. 

“Marketplace should have a merchant selling them,” Ignatz said around the quill in his mouth. “Why?”

Felix tapped his scruff-covered chin. “This is irritating as shit.”

Ignatz gave another sweet-tempered laugh, and Felix was, inexplicably, reminded of Marianne von Edmund. He wondered, absently, what had happened to her after the Fall of Fhirdiad.

“I think you look distinguished,” Ignatz said. “But I could just be jealous.” He tapped his own, bare chin.

The breeze kicked up across the fishing pond once more, and Ignatz was forced to clamp down on Felix’s notes, lest they fling themselves across the plaza. Felix was vaguely reminded of the time that Lysithea’s binder had burst open and scattered her notes all across this very place, and Marianne had somehow roped Felix and Sylvain into helping her catch them all. Lysithea had been wringing water out of her parchment for days, and it was probably the first time Felix or Sylvain had ever seen Marianne smile.

_New life goal,_ Sylvain had said that night at dinner. _Get Marianne to smile._

Ingrid had smacked him upside the head. _That poor girl does not need you bothering her!_

_I won’t bother her!_ Sylvain had protested, rubbing the red mark blooming on his cheek. _She looks like she could use someone to make her smile._

_That sounds like bothering to me,_ Felix had said.

His chest ached again.

“Whatever happened to Marianne von Edmund,” Felix managed, more quietly than he’d previously been speaking, “do you know? You were friends in school, right?”

Ignatz froze, still clutching the papers. “Not here,” he whispered, flicking his eyes towards the dining hall and dorms. “ _Please.”_

Felix gestured for his quill and Ignatz, hand trembling, handed it over. Felix found a spare bit of parchment, and scrawled, neatly, across the margin: _What are you afraid of?_

Ignatz read it, furrowed his brow, and scratched out his own response, in far more flowery script: _The Imperial Guard has hanged people for less._

Felix’s eyes widened, but Ignatz was already crossing out their short conversation with blotchy black ink. “You have good bones, here,” Ignatz said aloud. “I was never great at swordsmanship, of course, but it looks to me like you have most of the basics covered for your first years, and the third years learning appropriately advanced techniques.” 

“I can’t believe there are _three years_ here now,” Felix said.

Ignatz grinned. “We’ve tripled in size; it’s a blessing and a curse. So, this here.” He tapped one of Felix’s practicum blocks with one spindly finger. “Are you certain your first years will be prepared for this by the Garland Moon?”

“They should be,” Felix said.

“I suppose you can always play it by ear,” Ignatz said. “Also, I recommend getting a folder of some sort for your notes before they end up all over the place.”

“They sell those in the marketplace, too, I take it?”

“Now you’re getting it!”

As Ignatz continued to fine-tune Felix’s battle plan, the swordsman began to grow jittery. He was unused to sitting still for so long, unused to cushy, safe surroundings and laughter. Something had to go wrong, right? It always did.

“...Felix? Did you hear me?”

His gaze snapped back over to Ignatz. “Sorry, no.”

“I said, is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Felix said. “That’s exactly the problem.”

He expected Ignatz to laugh, but instead, he found the artist-turned-archer nodding solemnly. “I understand,” he said, softly. “Do you need to do something else?”

“No.” Felix Hugo Fraldarius did not half-ass a job. “Continue, if you would.”

Ignatz nodded. “Then, this here. The may-ster-how?”

“ _Meisterhäue,”_ Felix corrected.

“ _Meisterhäue,”_ Ignatz repeated, the old Faerghusi rolling uncomfortably from his tongue. “You’ve made almost no notes for it.”

“They’re the master hews,” Felix said, “best learned by doing. Honestly, _all_ swordsmanship is best taught by doing, but these students don’t have the luxury.”

“I don’t know that I’d call that a luxury…” 

At some point, Felix glanced back up again to find Annette and Hanneman deep in conversation as they exited the mess hall. She appeared concerned as they began to descend the stairs, gesticulating animatedly as she spoke. Hanneman was nodding along, paying more attention to staying out of her range than to where he was walking.

And then he missed the next step down with his cane.

Without thought, Felix snapped forward, shouting “ _Hanneman, look about!”_ as he burst towards the stairs.

Annette’s face grew horrified, her hands reaching out for her fellow professor.

Felix was forced to pivot around a few confused students, losing precious time.

Annette missed Hanneman’s coat by a hair’s breadth.

And it struck Felix that no matter how fast he moved, he wasn’t going to make it.

Hanneman hit the ground hard, and though the world continued to move, he did not.

“ _Hanneman!”_ Annette shrieked, pelting down the stairs two at a time. 

Felix reached him a moment before she did, immediately dropping to a crouch to check for a pulse. First wrists, then heart, then throat, waiting. 

It was only when Annette knelt across from him, Faith magic dancing from her palms, that Felix realized the old man had struck his head. Annette was reaching towards it with magic, her face screwed in consternation.

“What’s happened?” called one of the Imperial Guards on duty nearby.

“Hanneman’s fallen,” Felix barked. “You!” He got the attention of one of the first students he saw, a shy first year in his swordsmanship class, and added, “Get Manuela or Mercedes. _Go._ ”

The girl immediately nodded, eyes wide, and took off as fast as her skinny legs could carry her.

-)

Annette followed Manuela to the infirmary, stuttering apologies as quickly as her tongue allowed, but Felix went straight to the headmaster’s office.

“... _And_ _that is final!”_ he heard waft out of Hubert’s office before a thin, brown-haired man was ejected from it. He blew past the guard on duty, his countenance thunderhead dark, and barely spared Felix enough of a glance not to slam into him on his way out.

“The headmaster is…” The Imperial Guard began, but Felix blew past him, too, barely sparing a knock before shouldering the heavy wooden door.

“What part of _final_ did you… Oh, Felix.” Hubert cut himself off when he paused to glance over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. “Hello.”

Felix didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hanneman is too old to be teaching at Garreg Mach.”

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Hubert said. “I don’t believe that’s your decision to make.”

“He fell down an entire flight of stairs!”

Hubert’s eyes widened, and Felix was momentarily dumbstruck by the genuine concern sitting on the dark mage’s face. “When, just now?”

Felix nodded. “Outside the mess hall, yeah. Annette and Manuela have him in the infirmary as we speak.”

Hubert removed his glasses, setting them down primly in a catch-all dish embossed with the Adrestian double-headed eagle, and then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, and Felix readied his arguments just like he did spare arrows.

Then Hubert said, eloquently, “ _Shit.”_

Had he _been_ nocking arrows, Felix would have dropped them all. “Wait a damn minute—you agree with me, don’t you?”

“I do,” Hubert said with a tired sigh, removing his hands from his face. “I’ve been attempting to have the Emperor convince Hanneman to retire to Brigid or New Enbarr for years now, but she keeps telling me he refuses.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “You can’t tell him yourself?”

“I tried that first, and thought perhaps the Emperor might be able to succeed where I failed.”

For a moment, Felix wasn’t sure whether to laugh. “His research is here, isn’t it?”

Hubert sighed. “He won’t leave it, but I can’t simply leave him on the payroll if he isn’t teaching.”

“Isn’t that what tenure’s for?”

Hubert gave a short, surprised laugh. “Precisely, which is why we don’t have it.”

Felix’s brow furrowed as he considered possibilities. “Couldn’t you make him emeritus and, I don’t know, let him teach a master class one in a while?”

Hubert paused, and then sat back, steepling his fingers. “The title emeritus as a thank-you for his many, many years of service to crown and country, and perhaps a small retirement stipend… yes, that could work.”

Was it really that easy?

_Hubert’s pretty levelheaded,_ Annette had said the other night.

“Hmm?” Hubert’s sharp gaze missed nothing, and at the moment, it was zeroed in on his new swordsmaster. “You look as if there’s something else you want to say.”

“Honestly? I didn’t expect it to be that easy.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Hubert said, matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly the point of having someone like me as headmaster.” He sighed again. “Unfortunately, without Hanneman teaching properly, that leaves us with a grand total of _one_ reason professor.”

Felix blanched. Annette was already stretched thin, and he’d known that before classes even started. Mercedes was Faith-based and clerically trained, and Manuela was about as logical as a windstorm. The Blue Lions girls had lamented over tea, more than once, that Garreg Mach simply needed more teachers if it were to continue growing (not to mention, maintain its reputation for excellence).

“Give me two weeks to re-teach myself the basics,” Felix heard himself say, “and I’ll take some classes on.”

Hubert looked taken aback. “I beg pardon, but—are you a mage?”

in lieu of answer, Felix peeled off his left-hand glove and held up his now-exposed arm. White, branching, scars traveled from his fingertips down his arm, disappearing beneath his sleeve. 

“Learned the hard way,” Felix said, “but yeah.”

Hubert came around his desk to examine Felix’s arm, snagging his glasses again on his way. He squinted at the marks on Felix’s arm a moment, something like understanding crossing his face. 

And then, inexplicably, Hubert removed his own glove, and held out his bare hand. Swirling, ropy scars ran down the length of his spindly fingers, his calloused palm, and then disappeared into his sleeve.

In that moment, Felix understood a great many things about Hubert von Vestra.

“I’m afraid I can’t give you two weeks,” Hubert said with a note of apology, tugging his glove back on again, “but if you can hold out a month or so, I may be able to call in some favors in Enbarr.”

“Guess I’ll find someone to give me a crash course in reason magic tonight, then.” Felix paused, a thought occurring to him. “Wait a minute, couldn’t you pick up a few classes?”

Hubert sighed again. He sounded as tired as Felix felt, most days. “I would if I had but the time.”

When he left the Headmaster’s office a few minutes later, Felix headed straight for the infirmary. He needed to talk to Annette.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Annette teaches magic, and Felix has a nightmare.

“If it isn’t a good time, you can just say so,” Felix said, trying (and failing) not to sound as annoyed as he felt. 

Annette made an even more conflicted facial expression, and Felix just about threw up his hands and told her to forget it, he’d track down Manuela. 

“No, no,” Annette said, “I know it needs done, I just…” She huffed a breath, and then squared her shoulders. “I can teach you; I just don’t know who can take Alessia. It’ll be super hard to focus if she’s bouncing off the walls.”

Felix brow furrowed. “Nobody needs to take her; we can sit outside or something. Keep an eye on her.”

Annette blinked a few times, as though she had not comprehended that possibility of an answer. 

“She’s a little mage, right?” At Annette’s nod, Felix added, “I know a spell that’ll keep her entertained for hours. Don’t worry about it.”

“What spell are you casting on my daughter?”

Felix sighed, and drew a small glyph in the air between them. A tiny ball of glowing green energy began to nestle in his palm as the magic coalesced.

Annette was still skeptical. “How do you know that will work?”

“Because it worked on Glenn and me.” 

“Well, hell,” Annette said, defeated and deftly stepping over anything heavy, “if it entertained two little boys, I’m sure it’ll work for Alessia. Come on!”

Felix found himself suddenly yanked by the arm towards an unidentified goal, and the little ball of harmless magic slipped from his grasp. _“Annette!”_

It took her a second. “Oh! Sorry!” She released his arm but continued moving. “We’re heading to the marketplace; it’s where they let the young classes out.”

Felix’s brow furrowed as he fell in step beside her. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Nah, most of the parents are there by—oh!”

It was only Felix’s quick reflexes that saved Annette from tripping over a barrel that had somehow materialized in the main hallway outside the infirmary. 

For a moment, they both stood frozen in shock, Annette pressed up against Felix’s chest where she’d slammed into him. His heart pounded in his eardrums, surely loud enough for her to hear.

“Who put that barrel there?” Annette managed weakly. 

“Watch where you’re going,” Felix muttered, setting her back on her feet. His body immediately cried out for the missing warmth. 

Annette offered him a sheepish grin, her face blowing up scarlet. “Some things never change, eh?”

-)

“So, white magic seeks out living things,” Annette was saying as she sat on a bench outside the Iron Cranes’ classroom and Felix hovered nearby. “It’s healing, warmth, comfort.”

Felix nodded as he threw another ball of loose magic against the far wall of the courtyard, and Alesia chased it with an excited squeal. “Right.” The ball bounced off the far wall without so much as leaving a mark, forcing Alessia to change direction. 

“Black magic,” Annette continued, “seeks out nothing. It demolishes, decimates, incinerates. It doesn’t care what it touches.”

“So what's dark magic?” Felix asked. It was something he’d never managed to wrap his (admittedly literal) head around. 

“Something in between,” Annette said. “You’re taking your own life essence and using it to destroy.”

Felix thought back to Hubert’s scared hand, the whorling, ropy tendrils of scar tissue. “So then why does it…?”

“Look, look!” Alessia had suddenly appeared before him, holding the tiny ball of faith magic in both of her hands and beaming. “I did it!”

“That’s great, sweetie!” Annette praised. 

Felix nodded—“Excellent. Again!”—and threw another. 

Alessia yelped, dropped her current ball, and chased after the other. 

“You’re ruthless,” Annette told him with a laugh. 

Felix shrugged. “Kid’s gotta learn to control her magic somehow.”

“Anyway,” Annette continued, “white magic requires faith. You have to believe in the outcome you’re attempting to create in order for anything to work.” 

Alessia missed the ball this time, and it rolled under some bushes, disintegrating just out of view. She scrunched up her little face in confusion as she searched, and looked so much like Annette that Felix struggled not to laugh. 

“It’s disappeared, Alessia!” Annette called. 

Only to be drowned out by Felix’s booming, “Alessia, behind!”

The little girl turned just in time to see Felix throw another ball off in the complete other direction. She shrieked in delight and ran towards it. 

“You’re good at this,” Annette observed, affection swelling in her chest for the Blue Lions’ resident grumpy bastard. 

“My _father_ was good at this,” Felix mumbled. “I just used to get tackled to the ground a lot.” Usually by Glenn, but sometimes Sylvain or Miklan. Felix refused to dwell, and pressed on, “Anyway, reason magic?”

“Huh?”

“You were getting to why reason magic is named that.”

“Oh! Sorry. Scatterbrained.” Annette gave a self-depreciating little laugh. “Reason magic requires logic and understanding of the natural world. I don’t need to _believe_ that the wind will blow; I need to _harness_ it.”

“Which is why most people consider reason to be the easier one,” Felix inputted.

Annette gave a spluttering laugh as Alessia rounded on Felix again. “Only by those who have never tried it!” she said.

“You cheated!” Alessia declared, her hands on her hips and glaring something fierce up at Felix.

He cocked an eyebrow. “I did not.”

“Yuh-huh!” She stamped her foot and _he was not going to laugh, he was not going to laugh, he was not going to laugh, dammit!_

“Alessia,” Annette interjected, notes forgotten on the bench for a moment, “it’s not nice to accuse people.”

“But it’s _true!”_

Felix glanced back to Annette with the same sort of shit-eating expression he’d had when pushing her buttons, all those years ago.

Annette’s eyes narrowed. “Show us why you think he cheated, Alessia.”

Alessia ran ahead of them, impatiently stamping her foot as she waited, and Felix’s face continued to twist in his internal struggle. She refused to move until her mother got up and followed, as well, and so by the time they’d reached the rampart between the training grounds and the entrance hall, the cuteness had worn off and Felix was starting to get annoyed.

“It came over _here,”_ Alessia announced. “But it’s gone!”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “Where did you see it land?”

A look crossed Alessia’s face that announced she hadn’t thought of that part.

Felix sighed and strode over to the rampart as Annette tried to get more information out of her daughter. He squinted for a moment to the mountainside below, but found his mark—a small green glow—nestled into a crevice. 

“It’s over here, Alessia,” Felix said.

“Where!” She was attached to his leg in an instant. “Can we go get it?”

Felix did actually laugh at that one (just a little). “No, we can’t. I can make another, though.”

“But where _is_ it?” Alessia asked. “I wanna see!”

“It fell over the wall,” Annette said. “It’s not safe down there for little wolves.”

But Alessia continued to whine, and by the time Annette had the sense to put her foot down, Felix had already picked her daughter up by her middle and was balancing her against the hip without his swords, as natural as you please. “Out there,” Felix said, pointing to something Annette couldn’t see. “The little green thing in that rock.”

“I don’t see it…” Alessia squinted and leaned forward in Felix’s arms.

Annette shot forward immediately, but evidently needn’t have worried. Felix stepped back from the wall like a swordsman in riposte, bringing his other hand around to steady the squirming child. “Easy, now,” he said. “You don’t want to fall, do you?”

Alessia shook her head. “No…”

Something had been snaking its way into Annette’s ribs this entire afternoon, but now it was constricting and binding, squeezing the very breath from her lungs.

Alessia stilled under Felix’s watchful presence, and she stared out across the mountainside. Annette would have called it pensive, if she weren’t eight years old.

“Can we go back to playing?” Alessia asked after a moment.

“Sure,” Felix said, setting her back down. Alessia’s feet had barely touched the ground before she’d run off again, bursting towards the courtyard to get back into position.

“You really do have a little wolf there, Annette,” Felix said, but he stopped, mid-turn. “Annette?” 

“Yeah,” Annette said, her voice suddenly thick. “She is.”

“Annette, you’re, um.” Something like uncertainty crossed his face, and for the life of her, Annette had no idea why. He reached towards her, but stopped; his fingers twitched, unsure. “You’re crying.”

Annette reached up to her cheeks, and sure enough, found them wet to the touch. When had that happened?

“Did… I do something wrong?” Felix asked, quietly.

“Goddess, no.” Annette’s heart constricted further at the thought. She shook her head and tried to wipe the tears from her eye, but. failed dismally, as more and more appeared out of nowhere. “Thank you, Felix.”

“For what?” He sounded genuinely confused. “Playing mages’ catch with your kid?”

“Feeeeeelix!” Alessia’s tiny voice called from over by the bench where Annette’s notes still lay. 

Felix burst into startled laughter, and at the questioning look he got, told Annette, “That’s _exactly_ how little Ingrid sounded.”

Annette’s laugh burbled up through tears, and suddenly her chest hurt a little less but she didn’t know what to do with herself.

“Alright, you little wolf!” Felix called back, drawing the little glyph in the air again. “ _En garde!”_

Annette laughed through her tears—“Hang on, you still haven’t re-learned Sofia’s theorem yet!”—hitched up her skirt, and took off after her daughter and Felix.

-)

_Night patrols had always been Felix’s least favorite. Beyond the fact that it was difficult to see and easy to get ambushed, it was so damn hard to catch up on sleep for the rest of the week. He would grow chronically more tired until the first non-night-shift night, after which he would crash so hard as to not be woken by anything less than a titanus._

_Garreg Mach eddied and swirled around him, like water pooling at his waist in a river. One moment the banners outside the classrooms were blue, red, golden--the next black, iron, and violet. One moment the pace was in desperate need of repair, and the next, it was gilded in gold._

_The faces of the dead surrounded him:_

_Sylvain’s sunny smile._

_Ingrid’s stern glare._

_Ashe’s freckles, smeared in blood._

_Dedue’s ordinarily calm expression twisted in rage._

_His father’s kind eyes and terrible, terrible goatee._

_Glenn’s caved-in skull and sightless eyes._

_Marianne von Edmund’s dark-ringed eyes, so hidden behind her hair._

_He was in the Cathedral, now, the broken one that heralded the end. Moonlight streamed in through the ruined steeple, illuminating the unending piles of rubble that never seemed to shrink no matter how much debris they carted out, and a tall, furred creature whose silhouette Felix hadn’t seen in the waking world in many years._

_“Leave me,” the creature growled._

_“You reek,” said the voice of a much younger Felix._

You’re worrying us, _he meant._

_“You haven’t eaten in days,” younger-Felix added._

Come back to us.

_“Go to bed or do something constructive, would you?”_

Stop destroying yourself.

_“I said,” the creature growled, “leave me!”_

_And then the boar was upon him, hands on his throat, madness in his one good eye. Felix’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the ruined church floor, his hands unable to pry Dimitri’s from his throat in a test of brute strength, his nails sheathed in thick leather gloves. Smashing his fist into anything--head, neck, shoulder, broken eye--did nothing to faze Dimitri as he stared Felix down._

_“Leave me be,” Dimitri whispered._

Felix awoke sharply, hands scrabbling for his throat. He sucked in huge lungfuls of air as his body and mind tried to right themselves. 

“He’s not here,” Felix had to remind himself aloud. “He’s gone.”

The quiet words stuck like knives in the empty room.

Felix could never really say what drove him out of the safety of his room that night, but he found himself pacing the halls of Garreg Mach no-longer-Monastery with his sword at his side. His soft hunter’s boots made no sound on the tile and cobblestones, and his furred cloak whipped against his back in the brisk autumn wind.

A shiver ran down his spine as he passed the knight’s hall. Sylvain had favored the fireplace and couches there, finding them tucked away enough to actually do work, and private enough that if he _just so happened_ to have something else planned, so much the easier on his date. The boar prince had also favored the Knight’s Hall, spending day after day training with his lance until the Blue Lions’ Wartime strategy had essentially amounted to “Point Dimitri in the direction of the enemy and let him loose.”

He passed the graveyard next. They had offered to bury his father here, after the fall of Arianrhod, but Felix had refused, stubbornly insisting he be laid to rest in Fraldarius territory with Glenn and his mother.

His heart ached more than his throat did.

Felix’s feet knew the way to the Cathedral without the help of his brain, and so he was little surprised to find himself standing before its wrought iron gate before long. When he’d been a student here at Garreg Mach, the Cathedral Gate had almost never been drawn, save the time the Holy Mausoleum had been attacked. But here it was now, impassable. 

Felix supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Hubert had the gate drawn, now. What use was a cathedral anymore, with no Church of Seiros or Archbishop?

A quick scan told him attempting to pick the padlock was pointless, and the gate was so rusted over, it frankly wasn’t worth the effort to scale. Maybe he could vault over one of the sides? There had to be a secondary entrance somewhere.

“Professor Fraldarius?” came a small voice from behind him.

Felix snapped to attention, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. In the gloom, he could just barely make out one of his students—the Violet Owl’s year two house leader, Faustine von Engel. She was unarmed, evidently embarrassed, and appeared to be shivering. Her heavy curls were matted, tied down poorly with a length of ribbon.

“The hell are you doing out of bed?” Felix snapped, perhaps harder than he’d meant to. 

She winced, but held fast. “I need a Professor.”

His grip reflexively tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Faustine appeared not to notice, because she pressed on. “It’s Eberhard, sir. He’s… he’s not breathing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who said nightmares in their comments, last time? You were dead on :)
> 
> also, the barrel thing in Annette's supports gets me EVERY TIME


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the students are attacked.

All along the way to the dorms, Felix grilled Faustine for details—”Where is he? What was happening just before you came to find me? Are there others with him?”

The short answer, he got out of a very embarrassed Faustine, was that the two were dating and had _perhaps forgotten the time_ earlier this evening _._ Felix knew _that_ code when he heard it, and told her to make sure she saw Professor Manuela or Mercedes after this was sorted. A very red-faced Faustine assured him she would, and Felix considered that punishment enough.

“...He just, sort of seized up,” Faustine said as they rounded on the second floor of the dorms. “I ran and got Ellie, but she started panicking, and…”

_Ellie, Ellie, Ellie…_ Felix thought. _Which one is Ellie?_ Ah, the house healer. She was rounding on them now, the little blonde, mousy thing.

Wait.

“Ellie!” Faustine was trying not to shout, and failing dismally. “You were supposed to stay with Eberhard!”

“I heard footsteps!” Ellie defended. At the sight of her new professor, she paled, and yanked her dressing gown even more tightly across herself. “And I thought you were getting Professor von Martritz.”

Faustine put her hands on her hips. “Well, I found Professor Fraldarius, first.”

Felix would have laughed at any other time. “Ellie,” he barked instead, “do you know where Mercedes’ room is?”

The house healer nodded, still attempting to shrink in on herself. 

“Go find her,” Felix ordered. “Take a mate.”

Ellie looked like she’d choked. “I’m… sorry?”

“A mate,” Felix said again. “A shield-brother, comrade-in-arms, fellow student-- _whatever._ Find one.”

“Oh,” said Ellie, looking very faint.

“Try Karina,” Faustine said, more kindly than Felix (a very low bar). “She’s got the room at the end of the hall, above the stairs.”

_Ingrid’s room,_ Felix wanted to say. He wondered if their house brawler knew her room was probably haunted by the ghost of a stubborn Falcon Knight.

“Which one is yours, Faustine?” Felix inputted.

“This one, Professor.” She yanked open the door just behind them.

Felix would have choked on his laughter— _the fucking dorm rooms are the fucking same!—_ were he not already rounding on the inert figure on the bed. (Felix had to hand it to them; having sex in a twin bed was not easy.) 

Eberhard was one of the Violet Owls’ mages, and so it was easy to find his thin wrists and skinny neck around the blanket Faustine had hastily thrown over him before booking it for Ellie’s room. Felix’s brow furrowed as one wrist proved silent, and then the other did, as well.

“Do you have a compact?” Felix asked as he pressed two fingers into Eberhard’s neck. Honestly, he hadn’t had to do this much field medic work since he’d last been a damn field medic. Garreg Mach was _supposed_ to have been easier than mercenary work.

“Somewhere, why?” Faustine was already moving, digging through various drawers.

“Check for breath,” Felix said.

“A-ha!” She triumphantly yanked a small metal disc out of her desk. “Wait, what?”

Felix snatched it from her and cracked it open by way of answer. He kept his fingers pressed into Eberhard’s neck and held the compact in his other hand, hovering just above the boy’s mouth.

Silence, both in his pulse and in Faustine’s cramped dorm room.

“Professor?” Faustine put forward tentatively. 

Giving up on the subtle methods, Felix went straight for shoving his ear next to where the boy’s heart should be and listening hard.

A very weak pulse rose to greet him.

Triumphant, Felix straightened up and began drawing a glyph of healing in the air. “He’s breathing.”

Visible relief crossed Faustine’s face for a brief moment, and then it rearranged into sheer determination. “What can I do?”

“Get ready to run if I say so.” Dammit, he needed to draw more power to this healing glyph if it were going to do shit! “We’ll alert the headmaster when this is over.”

Faustine’s eyes widened. “Why?”

Felix slammed the glyph into Eberhard’s chest with none of Mercedes’ tact, Annette’s gentleness, or Lysithea’s precision. Felix was a war mage and a war medic, and he was not known for his bedside manner.

But he _was_ known for keeping people alive.

Eberhard burst into a fit of coughing, hocking up phlegm and blood and Goddess knew what else. It was thick and black and made Felix’s eyes widen. 

“Never mind running,” Felix told Faustine. “Get me some light.”

She fumbled with her matches for a moment before a candle sprang to life, bathing her room in a dim glow. She rounded on her bed, carefully holding the jar candle out before her. Felix gestured for her to hold it out over her boyfriend’s inert form, and Faustine’s hands shook so much as she complied that Felix had to reach up to steady her.

Deep, black streaks lined Eberhard’s bare chest alongside globs of phlegm and blood. Warning bells began chiming in Felix’s ears, and he was made very aware that he was not qualified for this. 

“Can you cast heal?” Felix asked, letting go of her wrist. 

Faustine shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Can you cast anything? At all?”

“No, that’s why I went to get Ellie.”

She sounded honest enough, and he didn’t have time to cross reference. 

“Faustine,” Felix said, bringing her attention sharply forward, “go and knock on every single one of your classmate’s doors. Do not leave until you are certain it’s them, and they’re alone.”

Her brow came down hard over wide, childlike eyes. “Professor? What’s going on?”

“Go now,” he ordered softly but firmly. 

“But sir, what about Eberhard?”

“I’ll keep him steady until Mercedes arrives.” He supposed he owed her at least the short explanation. She had risked a lot by coming to find a professor in the dead of the night. “I think your boyfriend’s been attacked.”

Faustine shot out the door so fast, Felix didn’t even have the time to tell her to grab a weapon. 

As loud banging began in the hall, Felix drew more sigils in the air, preparing to cast heal for a second time. He found himself wishing he’d had more of an aptitude for healing spells, and less of one for murder.

He shot the second round of white magic into Eberhard’s chest just as Mercedes arrived. “...They’re right here, Professor von Martritz.”

Mercedes’ quiet “Felix?” was all but drowned out by the snap of magic that burst the boy’s chest. Eberhard began coughing again, this time more throatily. 

“He’s got dark magic in his lungs,” Felix told Mercedes, getting abruptly to his feet. “A better healer than me needs to beat it out of him with white magic.”

Ellie’s gasp echoed in the hall, but Mercedes was already rolling up her sleeves. “Have you seen this before?” she asked briskly. 

Felix nodded. “A few times, yeah.” He stuck his head out of Faustine’s window to pin the dorms in reference to the surrounding foothills. “You take care of the kid; I’ll secure the perimeter.”

Mercedes nodded. “Go, then. And Ellie, please get me a bucket of water. Take Karina with you.”

Felix passed by several of his students, now confusedly congregating in the hall. “Professor?” called their house flyer, Siegmund. “What’s going on?”

“Remain in your rooms,” Felix told them. “I’ll explain everything when I get back.” He paused. “Actually, Siegmund, do you have your weapon with you?”

He shook his head slowly. “We aren’t allowed to keep weapons in our rooms.”

“What the hell kind of military academy is this?” Felix muttered. Back in the Lions’ day, everyone kept their personal belongings on hand—weapons and armor included, especially once relics began popping up. And of course, Eberhard was their reason mage, and Ellie was already assisting Mercedes.

As usual, he’d go alone.

“Faustine,” he said as he found her at the end of the hall, “report.”

She gave a startled little yelp, and so did the Iron Crane girl whose room she had just searched. “Um, everyone’s been alone so far, sir.”

Felix nodded. “Finish out, and then keep everyone up here and calm. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He headed down the stairs without waiting for an answer.

-)

All the students’ rooms faced the foothills, rather than the monastery, and so Felix wasted no time checking the greenhouse and fishing pond. For a mage to cast a spell, they had to be within range and sight, which meant they had to be on the monastery's back side.

Felix drew his sword, and the quiet rasp of metal on leather was the loudest thing in the forest. He advanced cautiously, his eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom. It occurred to him that his footsteps were the loudest thing in the forest, and he was the furthest thing from loud.

_Think, Felix._

All his years of assassin training came back in fits and starts. He sorted through poisons, garrotes, breathing techniques, until finally he recalled that, while you could certainly hide yourself, you could never hide the glow of a magic sigil.

Though his instincts screamed against drawing attention to himself, Felix halted his advance. He drew in a deep breath, and, with his off hand, began drawing a sigil in the air. Light danced from his fingers, and then the tell-tale hairs began standing up on the back of his neck.

He breathed out, and lightning shot from his fingertips towards the nearest tree.

A flash of red caught his attention, and Felix sidestepped just in time to avoid being set on fire. The fire spell instead smashed into brush, which immediately began smoldering. Movement up ahead told him the mage was running; Felix sheathed his sword and broke into a dead sprint.

Branches tore at his face and arms, but Felix barely registered the pain. His singular focus remained on the target ahead.

The mage fared little better in the thick forest surrounding Garreg Mach. Branches tore at him, too, snagging on his loose robe and baggy sleeves. Felix made a mental note to tell someone to come out here and look for clues when this was over.

Where was the mage _going?_ There was nothing around the monastery for miles, except the castle town, and that was in the opposite direction. Did he think to lose Felix in the forest?

The mage’s labored breathing began filtering behind him, and Felix’s lungs practically cried out in relief. It had been a long time since he’d had to chase a mark like this. He prepared himself for the cornered target to run or lash out, cataloguing the best ways to incapacitate. 

He almost missed it when the mage tripped on a loose root.

He went down so fast Felix barely saw it, but he _did_ see the flare of red begin again. There was nowhere to dodge this time, and not for the first time, Felix cursed the empire for the loss of his family's hero’s relic. The Aegis Shield could withstand blows both magical and mundane, and had saved his ass more times than he could count.

But with no Aegis and no room, Felix did the only other logical thing—he tackled the mage.

The mage let out a started “Oof!” when Felix’s bony shoulder crashed into his chest, and he flailed wildly, attempting to get his spell off. Felix cracked his elbow into the mage’s arm at various points—shoulder, elbow, wrist—and the man yelped and dropped the magic. 

Felix’s hands found the man’s throat, his knee, the groin, and suddenly, the world grew very still.

“Who… are you?” Felix growled between heavy breaths.

The mage stared up at him, fiery defiance in his eyes. Felix knew the feeling too well for the fury rising in his own chest to go anywhere. He lost the following glaring contest, his distaste for eye contact only just larger than his need for information.

He may have been the Violet Owls’ teacher for a grand total of a day and a half, but he was still their professor. This would not stand.

“Fine,” said Felix, and slammed his fist into the mage’s temple.

The man slumped beneath him, eyes rolling back into his head. Felix gingerly stepped off him and into a crouch. He yanked back the mage’s hood to discover a mop of heavy brown hair, and a sneer that was practically baked on. Felix blinked a moment, trying to recall where he’d seen this man before.

With a jolt, it struck him— _outside Hubert’s office._

“Well,” Felix muttered to the silent forest, “nothing doing, I suppose.”

He shouldered the man’s inert form and began the long trek back up the hill to Garreg Mach. Not for the first time, he wished Sylvain were here. There were so many burdens to carry without him.

-)

“What is the meaning of this?” thundered headmaster von Vestra.

A hush fell across the Violet Owls as they froze in place. Where had the headmaster come from? He, too, was dressed for bed, in a loose-fitting shirt and trousers, his heavy cloak thrown over his shoulders like a dressing gown. What was he doing in the dorms? 

“Don’t yell at them, Hubert,” came Mercedes’ voice. She was just exiting Faustine’s rooms, wiping down her hands with a rag that may or may not have been one of Faustine’s uniform shirts. “They’ve done nothing wrong.”

Hubert could only stare at the white magic professor, steam building in his ears.

“There’s been an attack on one of our students,” Mercedes continued blithely, though her eyes were sharp as flint. “Felix has gone to assess the perimeter.”

“An _attack?”_ Hubert repeated, incredulously.

None of the Violet Owls had previously thought it possibly to grow still more silent, but in that moment, as a staring contest bloomed between the sweet, white magic professor and the terrifying headmaster, they did.

Hubert opened his mouth to say something, but Mercedes cut him off. “Did you know,” she said crisply, “it’s possible to fill up a person’s lungs with dark magic tar?”

Faustine burst into tears, sinking against the wall as her shoulders shook. She did her best to control her sobbing as it echoed throughout the hall, muffling the sound in her hands and curling in on herself. Ellie came over and stood protectively beside her, as if daring anyone to come closer.

Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps this is not the place.”

“Indeed,” said Mercedes, and somehow, it sounded like she was _chastising_ the headmaster. She turned to Ellie and Faustine, stooping a bit to look them in the eyes. “Eberhard needs rest, right now. Ellie, I need you to watch over him while I speak with the headmaster, okay? If he starts coughing, you need to cast heal.”

Ellie nodded, eyes wide, and Faustine clung to her friend as she continued to shake and sob.

“Faustine,” Mercedes said, gently setting her hand on the girl’s shoulder, “this isn’t your fault.”

The Violet Owls’ house leader only sobbed harder. Her classmates began to shift in discomfort; it was unlike their leader to be so ill composed.

“Siegmund,” Mercedes said, straightening up. “In the morning, I’ll need your help to move Eberhard to the infirmary.”

The boy nodded, swallowing audibly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Return to your rooms,” Hubert ordered from the other end of the hall, and the students scrambled to obey. 

“What’s this about dark magic tar?” Hubert asked Mercedes once the students were abed.

“That’s the only way I can think to describe it,” Mercedes said. “It’s this thick, black gunk that’s settled into Eberhard’s lungs. Felix said it’s a spell he’s seen a time or two before.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t sound like something the average mercenary mage would develop.”

“It likely isn’t,” Mercedes said airily. “It sounds _much more_ like something a certain someones we know would develop.”

The fact that Mercedes knew of Those Who Slither in the Dark was due to one of the most frustratedly embarrassing moments of Hubert’s entire career as Emperor Edelgard’s spymaster. But even he would admit, it was nice to have someone around who understood that the Empire’s war was not over. 

For Mercedes, the old Kingdom’s war was not over.

“They came by yesterday,” Hubert said very lowly, “asking for students. I told them absolutely not.”

Mercedes grimaced. “I’m sure they liked _that.”_

“They certainly...” Hubert cut himself off, abruptly, as a string of curses began streaming from behind the greenhouse.

They glanced to each other, noted the other’s readying spell, and headed toward the source of the noise.

But it only turned out to be Felix, cursing a blue streak as he lugged someone’s unconscious body up the hill.

“Felix!” Mercedes called, relief coloring her voice. She dropped her spell immediately and headed over to assist. 

“Got ‘em,” Felix hissed.

“You’re shaking!” Mercedes chastised. “Did you carry this man all the way up here?”

“How else was I gonna get him here?” Felix managed, his voice a short hiss. He paused to let out a heavy breath, and then suck in another. “ _Damn_ , I miss Sylvain.”

He said it quietly, but Hubert didn’t miss much. “Let’s see who thinks they can attack my students,” Hubert said.

He felt Felix’s sharp gaze on him as he came around to the swordmaster’s side. Which was also how he knew that there was no way Felix missed the expression on his face when he yanked off the assailant’s hood.

“Shit,” said Hubert eloquently. He was beginning to notice a pattern, where Felix Fraldarius was concerned.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice this asshole outside your office yesterday.” Felix said it calmly, but his eyes were anything but.

Hubert sighed. He was suddenly exhausted. “I think,” he said, “we just had war declared upon us.”

Mercedes was agog. “ _Hubert,”_ she said, “don’t say things like that.”

“I’m gonna need a lot more information, here,” Felix said. He could have been talking about the weather or his grocery shopping, for how lightly he spoke.

For a moment, Hubert’s loyalties tore at one another. The Emperor had been furious when she’d learned of Mercedes’ knowledge, and the woman was only a healer. _She_ certainly hadn’t fomented a rebellion and taken out half of the standing Adrestian army before collapsing. There was no telling how the Emperor would handle the knowledge that the former Duke Fraldarius knew of the Empire’s unending war. At best, she’d view it as a lapse in sound judgement. At worst, betrayal.

But then, the Emperor wasn’t here.

His students were, and these children needed professors who weren't blind to the dangers Garreg Mach—nay, all of united Fódlan—faced. Hubert was a very effective spymaster, and the Vestra Sorcery Engineers were frequently pressing advantages and fronts, but at the end of the day, Hubert was only one man.

And he had long since grown used to acting in the Empire’s best interest, whether the Emperor thought so or not.

“Do you wish to know the truth of the Tragedy of Duscur?” Hubert asked, voice growing hot. “Of why Fhirdiad fell, of why the Emperor’s hair is white, of why the Hero’s Relics have disappeared?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s them.” He gestured to the unconscious figure on Felix’s shoulders. “Those Who Slither in the Dark.”

A swirl of emotions crossed Felix’s sharp face—first shock, then horror, then utter fury, and then, abruptly, nothing. His good eye was dead and lightless as he reached up to the man’s head, patting around for a moment as if looking for something. In one quick, jerking motion, he broke the man’s neck.

The snap echoed throughout the courtyard.

As Felix stared him down, Hubert realized his good eye was the furthest thing from dead—it was murderous.

“Start. _Fucking_. Talking.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parents' Weekend is a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I interrupt this quarantine to bring you postwar darkfic!

Felix fell into the rhythm of the Officers’ Academy about as well as he had the first time—which was to say, not at all. There were many late nights and early mornings; he lifted the ban on beverages in his class just so that he could drink some damn coffee. Hubert had not been thrilled. 

The students were, as Annette had said, largely happy to be there, or at least understood they needed to put in the damn effort to _stay_ there. It helped Felix’s lack of patience immensely to explain something for the third time in a slightly different fashion to a kid who was really just trying and failing to understand _,_ as opposed to merely lazy. There were a few of those, too, but frankly, they weren’t the ones finding him to ask questions after class, and that was fine by Felix. They would fly or fall of their own accord.

Although practicum should have been far simpler than lecture, Felix found himself running into the language barrier over, and over, and over again. Most of his students had picked up the obvious—the parts of the sword were _stark/swach,_ as opposed to _forte/piano,_ _langort_ was your basic stance, _Hau_ was the word for strike, et cetera—but nothing was ever done quickly when it took half the class to get everyone on the same page. 

“Professor Fraldarius,” one of his students had said once afternoon, “why do you use such strange fencing terms?”

“They’re relics of a lost age,” Felix had said, pressing the tip of his longsword into the sandy training ground floor. “Just like me.”

And more than anything, he missed the war songs.

His fencing masters had always taught practicum via war song. There was one for lance, for longsword, for archery, for reason magic—honestly, if you could kill someone with it, there was probably a Faerghusi war song to teach it. He supposed there was nothing technically stopping him from using them, beyond the fact that it would probably earn him the Empire’s ire (again), but what really put the stopper in it was that war songs were best done in twos. Someone to sing, and someone to order to strike, to correct, to stride about and correct footwork and guards. And for that, he’d need another Faerghus expat who had specialized in the physical combat arts.

He told Annette all this on their first paired night patrol, a month or so after the school year had begun.

She giggled. “You always did like hearing signing.”

“It’s _practical,”_ Felix huffed, cheeks turning violently red in the growing darkness.

“I know,” she said. “I still get the reason war song stuck in my head, sometimes.” She mimicked drawing wind sigils in the air. “ _And in the end, we’ll never know; how far that Kyphon had to go.”_

_“A man of fury and of might, the lion’s fiend, the battle-wight.”_

Annette grinned. “I didn’t realize you’d learned reason as a kid.”

“Reason _and_ faith,” Felix said with a grimace. “I told you, I just needed to remember the theorems.”

“How’s that class going for you, anyway?”

Felix shrugged. “Not terribly, but not well. Hubert’s mentioned a few times that he’s trying to call in favors in Enbarr, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Annette winced. “I’m just glad there’s _someone_ else to teach some of it.”

Felix’s face grew even redder. “Don’t mention it.”

“Wait.” Annette stopped walking, and belatedly, so did Felix. “I thought Hubert threw them at you. Are you telling me you _volunteered?”_

“Honestly,” Felix said, scratching at the back of his neck, “it was kind of both.”

“Felix!” Annette’s voice rose an entire octave in those two syllables. “You are a brand-new teacher! You should be learning how to teach your own classes, not taking on mine!”

“Hush, Annette. You’ll wake the students.”

Annette headed off his path, putting her hands on her hips. “Then maybe they’ll see what a stubborn ass their teacher is!”

Felix snorted, and tried to avoid watching her dress tighten against her hips. “How were you supposed to teach nine classes, Annette? There are six periods in a day.”

Her face reddened, the way it used to when he’d gotten the upper hand in their endless bickering. “I would have figured it out!” she defended.

“Ah, so you’ve figured out time travel?” Felix snapped. “You’ll have to teach me; I can think of a few places I’d like to put it to use.”

The anger whooshed out of Annette’s lungs like she’d cast cutting wind. 

“Felix,” she said.

The weight of the history in his name threatened to choke them both.

“Yes?” He managed.

“Don’t be a dick.”

He snorted, and just like that, the weight was gone. “That’s like telling you not to work so hard.”

Annette laughed, belatedly. “Touché.”

Silence passed over them for a few turns, and then Annette asked, “So, are you ready for parents’ weekend?”

Had he been drinking anything, Felix would’ve choked. “Beg pardon?”

“Parents’ weekend,” Annette said again. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Can’t forget what you never knew. Do they really let a bunch of ex-nobles come traipsing in here?”

“According to Hubert, they kind of have to.” Annette made a face. “How do you think they managed to redecorate so fast _and_ pay all the teachers?”

“Figured the empire has pretty deep pockets.”

Annette shook her head. “Not after a genocidal war, they don’t.”

They continued on in silence for a moment.

“Alright,” Felix finally mustered, “how bad is it?”

-)

Annette had done her best, but she could not possibly have prepared Felix for parents’ weekend. He simply carried too much Faerghus with him.

As the swordsmaster, he had been posted in the training room with Sabine, the lancemaster. He paced the floor with his coat and his sword, occasionally offering a demonstration if a student or parent requested.

He had been expecting the side-eyes, of course, and the rude questions, the thinly veiled insults, the snideness. But he had _not_ been expecting the outright hostility, not from the winning side. What was the point? They’d gotten what they wanted.

“What business does a Faerghusi beast have teaching our children?” the former Lord Mattingly had sniffed at him. Ellie looked about ready to melt into an embarrassed pool on the floor.

“Same as the empire folk,” Felix said coolly. “Didn’t die in the war, needed something to do.”

Felix almost felt bad for how wide Ellie’s eyes snapped open. She would need to make herself a thicker skin if she were ever going to stomach being the team healer.

“I can’t believe the Headmaster even let your kind in the door,” ex-Lady Mattingly sniffed, as if Felix couldn't hear her.

_Your kind._

Felix hated the erasure more than he did the insult. He wished he could goad these people into just coming out and saying it.

_Faerghus._ He was from fucking Faerghus, and he always would be.

“You’re welcome to take it up with him,” Felix told her instead. “The Headmaster signed my hiring paperwork.”

The ex-Lady Mattingly looked positively faint.

“Oh, leave him to bark,” came another voice, whose bearer Felix unfortunately knew. “It’s what war dogs do, after all.”

Felix nodded to the offcomer, fury breathing life into his lungs. “General Ironfang.”

“ _Duke_ Fraldarius.” The general folded his arms across his broad chest, putting insulting emphasis on Felix’s old title.

“Been a while,” Felix said. “How’s the family?”

Ironfang’s glare tightened. “I must admit, when my daughter told me about her new professor, I thought perhaps she’d seen a ghost.”

“ _Father,”_ Faustine said, going red to the tips of her ears. “Professor Fraldarius is…”

“I’m surprised Headmaster von Vestra let you keep your name,” Ironfang continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Though I suppose it’s been largely struck from the record hasn’t it?”

Felix almost succeeded in not wincing. _Almost_. “No weight to it anymore,” he said. “Hubert didn’t see the need.”

“Well, now.” Ironfang’s eyebrow was nearly in his hairline. “I didn’t realize you were on a first name basis with our dear Headmaster.”

“Neither did he,” Felix said.

Somewhere across the way, Ellie giggle-snorted, and was quickly hushed by her mother.

“Well, now,” Ironfang said again, his composure as deadly as it had ever been. “I’m told you’re completing demonstrations. Let’s see it, then.”

“Certainly.” Felix glanced to his student. “Faustine, would you kindly grab a wooden sword?”

“Wood?” Ironfang scoffed. “Surely you’ve progressed past the need for a child’s weapon, Faustine?”

She looked torn, glancing from her father to her professor and back again.

Felix would be damned if Ironfang said another word. “Or steel, if you like.”

She passed him apologetically, going to the weapons rack and drawing a loaner steel sword from the bunch.

“Guard up,” called Felix as they settled across from each other in the sandy, training room arena. “Begin!”

He felt a surge of pride when Faustine didn’t immediately stutter-step into her first attack; he had been trying to break her of that habit all semester. Felix parried her easily, falling into footwork that was more muscle memory than thought, these days.

He let her lead for a bit, and then began calling out strikes and attack patterns. Sweat beaded her brow as Faustine hurried to follow orders, but she held her ground, a look of consternation on her face.

Felix called her to a halt a few minutes later. “Excellent, Faustine. You’ve been training outside of class, eh?”

She nodded a few times, embarrassed. “Mostly with Siegmund. He wanted to improve his swordsmanship before the certification exams.”

“Hmm,” said Felix. “He’s never seen me after class.”

He was painfully aware of Ironfang’s gaze boring holes in his back as he continued the banal small talk of students and teachers, and was uncomfortably reminded of the last time he’d felt the Imperial General’s gaze sizing him up like this.

“She’s certainly improved,” Ironfang said, and Felix could see Faustine’s shoulders sag in relief as she put away her sparring sword. “But how would you feel about a friendly wager, Fraldarius?”

“I’m not betting on my students.” Felix turned back to face him, summoning every ounce of stone-face he’d inherited from every ancestor in the Fraldarius family tree. “They deserve far better.”

“Noted,” said Ironfang, “however, that wasn’t the wager.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“A gentlemen’s duel,” Ironfang said. “Should you win, I shall make a generous donation to the school in the name of your late father.”

Felix’s face grew even stonier. “And should you win?”

Ironfang’s grin was uncanny. “You crawl back to whatever mercenary company you came from.”

A hush fell across Faustine and Ellie, and Sabine looked like she was ready to step in and stop them, but Felix could only crack the biggest smile this stone-face allowed. “Deal.” He drew his sword once more. “ _En garde.”_

General Ironfang struck with the force of a man twenty years younger; Felix barely even saw him draw his blade. The general pressed forward at every opportunity, thrusting and parrying with calculated finesse. As though he hadn’t aged a day since the war, as though Felix hadn’t.

As though they stood in a muddy fen in Gautier territory still.

It had been a long time since Felix had fought a worthy opponent. His body burned with exertion, sweat pooling at his brow and the small of his back. It felt good to stretch like this; fighting just his students had made him too soft.

He wondered if Leonie and her boys would even recognize him anymore.

_“Cease this at once!”_

Felix disengaged immediately, hissing when Ironfang’s blade caught him in the ribs on the way out. His hand flew up to press into the wound, and he fumbled to catch the stream of curses he nearly loosed. 

Ironfang cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised that landed.”

“My boss just told me to stop,” Felix hissed back, barely stopping himself from tacking _asshole_ onto the end of it, as he would have all those years ago. 

As he _had_ , all those years ago.

“Explain yourselves at once,” Hubert demanded. How he had materialized in the training grounds, Felix would never know. 

General Ironfang glanced to Felix, who made a show of poking at his wound and wincing. Sylvain would have been proudly cackling; Ingrid, rolling her eyes.

General Ironfang sighed, unimpressed. “Just a friendly gentleman’s duel, Headmaster von Vestra. Nothing you need be concerned with.”

“ _I_ will be the judge of that,” Hubert just shy of snapped.

“It’s nothing,” Felix hissed. “I’m fine.”

And his hand began to glow with his inelegant healing magic.

“I expected him to parry, frankly,” General Ironfang added.

Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kindly do not provoke my professors, General, and I shall ask them to do the same.”

“Seems my existence is a provocation,” Felix told him. “Not much I can do about that bit.”

“That reminds me,” General Ironfang said. “Headmaster von Vestra, might I request a moment of your time? I have some concerns I would see addressed.”

For a moment, it looked almost as though Hubert would refuse. But then he said, “Certainly, I will be free this afternoon once the demonstrations have finished.”

“Capital,” said the General. “I look forward to it.”

Hubert spared a glance towards Felix, who still was pressing healing magic into his side. “And go see a healer, please, Felix.”

-)

“Can’t fucking stand Ironfang,” Felix muttered while Mercedes looked him over in the infirmary.

“I can’t believe you _dueled_ him,” Mercedes said.

“What can I say? I never managed to stab him when it mattered.”

“ _Hush.”_ It was as close to harsh as Mercedes would ever come.

“Right,” said Felix, looking away from her. “Probably shouldn’t talk about that.”

Mercedes paused in the midst of cleaning out the wound in his side. It had, mercifully, been one of those shallow cuts whose bark was worse than its bite. “Felix,” she said seriously, “you do realize our lives here are balanced on the edge of a blade? One off-color comment in front of the wrong person…”

“Mercie, there was no way you could put General Ironfang in a room with me and have both of us walk out unbloodied. He’s probably trying to convince Hubert to fire me as we speak.”

Mercedes sighed. “Well did you _say_ something to set him off?”

Felix racked his brains. “I don’t think so. I’m just… still here.”

Mercedes sighed again, resuming her work on his wound. “Please be careful, Felix. We’ve only just gotten you back.”

A funny, fuzzy feeling spread in his chest, at that.

“Professor von Martritz?” came a small voice from the door. “Is… is Professor Fraldarius okay?”

“I’m fine,” Felix called over. “Just a scratch.”

Faustine von Engel looked very uncomfortable in the door frame, nervously twisting the hem of her uniform jacket.

“He’ll make a full recovery,” Mercedes told her kindly. “No need to worry about this old battle-axe.”

“I’m a greatsword, thank you.”

A giggle-snort from behind Faustine told them that she was not alone. Mercedes gestured for the girls to come in the room, and they did so, hesitantly.

Ellie mumbled something at her boots. 

“Eh?” Felix said.

“Beg pardon?” Mercedes said, elbowing Felix’s uninjured side.

“I’m…” Ellie drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry about my parents, professor. They’re just… well, they’re positively awful.”

“No harm done,” Felix told her. “I expected this kind of thing when I signed on to Garreg Mach.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to,” Ellie muttered.

Felix hadn’t heard anything so adorably naïve in years.

Ellie and Faustine lingered in the infirmary, saying nothing, although something seemed to hang over their heads like a blade.

“Was there something else you needed?” Felix prodded.

The girls looked to each other, and then Faustine said, very quietly, “Are you really the Duke Fraldarius?”

The silence that fell across the infirmary was deafening.

“The former,” Felix finally said, careful of Mercedes’ weighted stare. “Also the younger.”

Ellie gave a small gasp and immediately covered her mouth with her hands, but Faustine was just staring at her professor. 

“My father,” she finally managed, “always said you were, well…”

Felix chuckled. “I’m sure Ironfang has plenty of unflattering nicknames for me.”

Ellie brought her hands away from her mouth to ask, a touch conspiratorial, “Was Margrave Gautier really as handsome as they say?”

Felix glanced to Mercedes, who smiled. “Oh, _yes,”_ she said to Ellie.

“A lot dumber, too,” Felix muttered, and Mercedes burst into laughter.

Faustine’s brow furrowed. “I thought he was a brilliant general?”

“He was,” Felix said. “He was also a dumbass.”

“That… doesn’t make any sense,” Faustine ventured.

Mercedes sighed. “It would if you’d met him.”

“Did you both know him?” Ellie asked, shooting glances out the door as if General Ironfang or Headmaster von Vestra would suddenly materialize.

Felix leveled her with a tired gaze. “He was my best friend for many years. Now either shut the door, or stop asking questions about things better left buried.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, we can go.” Ellie began tugging at Faustine’s arm.

But Ironfang’s daughter didn’t budge.

“I had a question,” she said. It sounded as though she had dragged it out of herself with a rusty knife.

“Shoot,” said Felix.

“What really happened, the night of the Battle of Spirits’ Fen?”

Felix utterly froze, shutting his eyes to the deluge of unexpected grief.

“Maybe when you’re older,” he said hoarsely, “or I’m drunk. Or both.”

“I’m sorry.” Faustine took a few hesitant steps towards her professor. “I didn’t mean to hurt, I just...”

“For now,” Mercedes said lightly, settling her hand on Felix’s back, “it’s best if you believe what the Empire tells you, Faustine.”

“Seek your own answers when you graduate,” Felix muttered. “Like we all did.”

“But that’s the thing,” Faustine said, a touch desperately. “They don’t tell us much of anything! But my father was never the same after.”

“Neither was I,” Felix muttered, staring down his boots.

“You were there?” Ellie asked, her voice hushed.

“Me,” Felix grunted, “Sylvain, Ashe Ubert, Cassandra von Charon, and a lot of other good Faerghusi.” He grimaced. “Dead Faerghusi, now. You guys might call it the Battle of Spirits’ Fen, but to us, it’s the Death of the Kingdom.”

“Felix _, that’s enough,”_ Mercedes said sharply.

“Right.” He sighed, and shut his eyes. “Know this, kids.” They snapped back open, finding their mark on his students. “History is written by the victors, who will never incriminate themselves. Now go on; off you go. Before I give Mercedes a stroke.”

-)

Hubert cornered him that night at dinner. “Felix, a moment, if you would?”

Felix paused over his meal. That was never a good opener. “Sure, Headmaster. Here or in private?”

“Just out in the hall,” Hubert said.

Felix glanced to Ignatz. “Watch my meal, would you?”

“Sure,” Ignatz said. “I’ll make sure it behaves.”

Felix hoisted himself up off the bench with a snort, and followed Hubert out of the dining hall.

The entrance hall felt much the same as it ever had, even if the rug runners were red and gold, now. The stately columns were the same, just like the grand staircase leading to the main monastery doors. Hubert led them to one of the corners, where they both knew voices would be muffled.

“Just so you’re informed,” Hubert said, “General von Engel spent almost an hour this afternoon attempting to convince me to fire you on the spot.”

“I expected as much,” Felix said. “Shall I pack my bags?”

“Four saints, no!”

Felix felt like he’d been physically stunned. “I… what?”

“General von Engel is a bully,” Hubert said. “Always has been. And I’m feeling a tad bit…”

A slow smile spread across Felix’s face. “Conspiratorial?”

“Just so.” Hubert flashed a grin of his own, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But I warn you—I can only vouch for you so long as you keep your nose clean. Your only ‘crime,’ currently, is fighting on the losing side.”

Felix’s grin fell away. “The Gautier Rebellion doesn’t count?”

Hubert pitched his voice so lowly, Felix strained to hear him. “I think,” he said, “if the roles had been reversed, I might have done the same.” 

Felix studied Edelgard’s rat-like retainer for a long moment. He had never thought much of Hubert personally, in that most of the war was waged far beyond his sphere of influence. They’d had a magic class or two together as students at Garreg Mach, but overall, Hubert had been a mystery wrapped in a dark cloak, and he’d seemed to prefer it that way.

“And Ironfang is a fool to think otherwise,” Hubert added, a touch venomously.

Felix wasn’t sure whether to laugh or expect a trap. “You don’t like him either, eh?”

“No,” Hubert said, firmly and openly, “I don’t.”

Felix wondered idly what the general must have done to get on the bad side of the Emperor’s Right Hand Man.

“For the record,” Hubert said, “I never really liked you, either.”

“That’s fair,” Felix said. “I am a pain in the ass.”

Hubert snorted. “Less so than you used to be.”

“Yeah, the lack of lands and title does that.”

“And here, I’d thought you’d mellowed out in your old age.”

“Speak for yourself, old man!”

Again, unthinkably, Hubert snorted. “Ferdinand also wanted me to inform you that many of the faculty are going on their annual parents’ weekend drinking binge tonight. He supposed you wouldn’t accept an invitation from him, but you’re welcome to go just the same.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “Is that really what they call it?”

“No, that’s what _I’ve_ always called it.”

“Well, what the hell.” Felix could use a drink.

Or five.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ferdinand buys the drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brought to you by "Only Us" by Miracle of Sound

Felix had never figured he would be spending any evening, ever—with the possible exception of graduation night—drinking in a Garreg Mach Pub with Ignatz Victor, but he supposed stranger things had happened.

Also, it was better than drinking alone.

“I’m so glad that’s over,” Ignatz said, relief spilling into his voice. “I always feel like I’m about to say the wrong thing on parents’ weekend.”

“You and me both,” Felix muttered, taking a long draught of ale. It had been a long time since he’d been in a pub with ale this fresh _,_ and he savored it like a man dying of thirst.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Ignatz winced. “That was probably insensitive. Did you really have to duel General von Engel?”

Felix shrugged. “He wanted a demonstration.”

Ignatz shivered “You’re far braver than I am. If the general so much as _looks_ in my direction, I want to hide.”

Outside the walls of Garreg Mach, Felix felt a little freer. “Can’t win a war that way.”

“I suppose...” Ignatz’s eyes grew wide behind his glasses as the realization occurred to him. “He was the one sent to deal with the Gautier Rebellion, wasn’t he?”

Felix nodded—“That’s a nice way of putting it.”—and then buried his nose in his tankard again.

“A toast!” called a very tipsy Ferdinand von Aegir from the bar. “To our dear faculty at Garreg Mach Mon—” He cut himself off with a swift shot down his gullet.

Felix and Ignatz both quietly raised their mugs, and continued.

“You know,” said Ignatz, “Ferdinand was worried you wouldn’t come, if he did.”

“He seems to think that since he killed my father, I must want him dead or something.”

Ignatz choked on the ale he’d just drunk, and Felix had to thump him on the back a few times. “Well, don’t you?” Ignatz finally managed.

“I did,” Felix admitted. “But the war’s over. And frankly, I would have done the same in his place.” It echoed what Hubert had told him earlier. “Hard to hate someone that way.”

“True enough,” Ignatz said. “But frankly, and, erm, don’t take this the wrong way, but parties never seemed like your cup of tea?”

“They weren't,” Felix said. “Still aren’t. But I do like ale, so…” He clanked their wooden tankards together. “ _Prost.”_

“Cheers,” Ignatz agreed.

“Besides,” Felix added, “people-watching in a tavern is a mercenary’s favorite past time.”

Ignatz studied him for a moment, and then announced, “You just wanted to see if Hubert would get drunk, didn’t you?”

“ _Goddess_ , so much.” 

Ignatz laughed, more loudly than perhaps Felix had ever heard. “He never comes to these things, unfortunately. So we’ve no idea what he’s like in his cups.”

“Alright, new life goal,” said Felix, echoing a long-dead margrave. “Also, in that vein, I’m surprised Mercedes and Annette aren’t here.”

“They come sometimes,” Ignatz said. “I think it has to do with Alessia.”

“Okay, about that,” Felix said, pitching his voice lower and bracing both hands against the table to lean towards the archer. “Do we know who Alessia’s father is?”

“No.” Ignatz shook his head. “She’s never said.”

“Well did you _ask?”_

“Why would I ask? That’s incredibly indecent!” Ignatz was red to the tips of his ears. “If it matters so much, why don’t _you_ ask?”

“I can’t.” Felix slumped back into his seat.

“Why not? 

“I just can’t.” His tone announced the topic was closed—or at least, he hoped so.

“Why not?” Ignatz asked again, much more softly this time. “She was your friend, right?”

_Your friend._

Unbidden, Felix recalled that night, many years ago, that she almost hadn’t been. She could have been so much more if he’d just unstuck his drunk tongue from the roof of his mouth and _said something._

“She’s proud,” Felix said, “doesn’t want to burden anyone.”

“I fail to see how learning of her… _oh.”_ Ignatz pulled up to such an abrupt start, his beer physically sloshed. 

Felix cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, it was _true.”_ Ignatz was staring now, mouth open and everything.

“ _What_ was true?” Felix snapped.

“You and Annette.”

“We were never together.”

“Felix, I was also at the winter ball that year,” Ignatz reminded him, brushing off the venom like it didn’t even sting. “So I hope you understand what I mean when I say I simply do not believe you.”

“Believe what you like.” Felix got to his feet, tankard in hand. “Doesn’t make it true.”

He could use another beer.

As Felix attempted to get the bartender’s attention, he felt the weight of a bombastic presence descend to his immediate right. His reflexed were blunted from drink, his senses dulled, so although he recognized it, it was far, far too late to stop him.

“Felix, my good man!” Ferdinand slung an arm around the swordsman. “We were worried you weren’t coming!”

“Hubert told me about it,” Felix said, aggressively shaking off the arm. 

“Oh, good!” Ferdinand was red-faced and beaming, even as he was rebuffed. _A born politician, this one,_ Felix mused. “I wasn’t certain you’d join us if I asked.”

“I don’t know where you get the impression that I hate you.” It fell out of Felix’s mouth before he could think to stop it. “I’ve never said a damn thing about you.”

Abruptly, Ferdinand stilled. “From Arianrhod, of course.”

“You followed your orders,” Felix said dully. “Being upset with you for it would be like your being upset with me for stabbing General Ladislava. It’s war. People die.”

Ferdinand’s brow furrowed. “And it doesn’t upset you?”

“‘Course it did.” At the look he received, he amended, “Does. Don’t take this the wrong way, Ferdinand, but I would much rather my father have survived than you.”

“Why would I take offense? I would hardly expect anything different.”

Felix shrugged, waving again in a vain attempt to get the bartender’s attention. “But that isn't the way the war went, and it doesn't do to dwell on it. So no, I don’t hate you. Don’t much care to be around you, but I don’t hate you.”

Ferdinand studied him for a long moment. “That’s a hard way to be,” he finally said.

“It’s the only way; we lost the war,” Felix said, finally grabbing the attention of the bartender. “Can I get a—”

“My good man!” Ferdinand cut in. “Could we please have two doubles of vodka?”

“I’m not doing a shot with you,” Felix barked as the bartended bustled off.

“Yes you are, I’ve already bought it. Consider it something of an apology.”

“You’ve apologized half a dozen times just tonight. _Enough.”_

“A eulogy, then!” Ferdinand cried.

Felix froze. “For what?”

“For your father,” Ferdinand said, desperation creeping into the edges of his voice, “and mine. For what you’ve lost. For what I have.”

“Enough,” Felix snapped, but when the bartender returned with two shots of vodka, he took one.

They drained them together, Felix in one fell swoop, Ferdinand in a few pained-looking gulps.

“Why’d you order vodka if you clearly hate it?” Felix asked, thumping his glass back on the table. His accent was growing thicker as he grew drunker, _vodka_ coming out like _woadka._

Ferdinand made a face. “It was the most Faerghusi I could think of that they might still have, here.”

That same strange, fuzzy feeling from earlier in the infirmary came back, and Felix squashed it at once.

“Are you done tripping over yourself around me, now?” Felix asked.

“I shall endeavor to try!” Ferdinand said.

“Capital. Now, seriously, _bartender!”_

-)

Annette initially had not intended to go out drinking after parents’ weekend. She had been exhausted after playing nice with so many people who complained about her clothes, her face, her accent, her daughter, and had planned to have a nice, hot soak in the sauna’s hot springs while Mercedes kept an eye on Alessia, and then pass out.

But then Mercedes had mentioned she’d heard Felix was going, and Annette realized she very much wanted to see if he was still the same goofy lightweight she remembered from the war. And so Mercedes managed to wrangle Alois into looking after Alessia for the evening, and off they went.

“And besides, Annie,” Mercedes was saying as they headed down the path to Garreg Mach town, “it’s nice to get out of the monastery for a bit.”

“I’m already coming along,” Annette said. “You don’t need to convince me.”

Mercedes smiled demurely. “You looked unsure.”

“That’s… it’s not about leaving the monastery for a night,” Annette said. “I know Alois loves Alessia like his own daughter.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

Annette sighed, and resisted the urge to tug up the neckline of her dress. “I haven’t worn this dress in years. It feels a little, I don’t know, inappropriate?”

Mercedes pulled them up short and cast a critical eye over her best friend. “Nonsense,” she said after a moment. “I think you look lovely; that’s why I suggested it. What would be inappropriate?”

Annette couldn’t help but think back to the deluge of parents earlier. She had been covered neck-to-ankles, her hair back in a fair neater plait, and it hadn’t mattered then, either. “Aren't mothers supposed to look a certain way?”

Flint came into Mercedes’ expression. “You mean however they like?”

Annette gave a weak laugh. “I hope you know I love you, Mercie.”

She beamed. “And I, you, my friend!”

The party was already in full swing when they arrived, riotous and filling the entire pub.

“...and what about you, Felix?” Sabine was saying. “You think you can do better?”

“I don’t have any funny mercenary stories,” Felix shouted back from across the room. He was holed up in a corner booth with Ignatz Victor, of all people, and judging by his voice, already several drinks in. “I was the team assassin.”

A hush fell across the bar.

Annette remembered, of course, the day the Blue Lions had taken their advanced certification exams. She had been thrilled to pass the certification for warlock (and had promptly slept for a week), and Mercedes had nearly cried in happiness at certifying for Bishop.

She also remembered Ingrid sullenly refusing to take the exam, rather than give up her beloved pegasus, Sylvain buying beers for the pub to celebrate his promotion to Paladin, and Felix quietly composing a letter to his father for the next week and half, explaining that he’d chosen to certify in assassin instead of swordmaster. He’d surprised even professor Manuela with his choice, and she had subsequently sent him off to work with Shamir for most of the rest of the semester.

Annette also remembered his terrifying precision on the battlefield, during the war. He would never match Dimitri in ferocity or Sylvain in versatility, but he cleaved huge swatches into the enemy flanks just the same, disappearing and reappearing seemingly at will. She lost track of how many times an arrow found its mark in her opponents before she could even get a spell off.

“And you’re telling me you never had to wear a funny costume to get close to a mark?” Shamir argued from across the way. “Poor form, Fraldarius.”

“Oh.” Felix visibly racked his brains. “Well, I suppose there’s one that’s funny if you’re not me.”

“Now we’re talkin’!” called Nicolo, the brawling professor. 

Felix took a huge, bracing gulp of ale. “So, there was a mark in Deir--’scuse me, New Enbarr--that was a goddess-awful womanizer, yeah? He would throw these massive parties, and basically quintuple-check every man at the door, but the ladies could just waltz right in.”

Shamir started cackling—an unholy sound Annette wasn’t sure she’d ever heard. “I think I know where this is going.”

Felix made a face. “Leonie had planned on going just herself, but we weren't about to let her go in alone. We skinny guys drew straws; I lost.”

At this point, even Mercedes had begun giggling, and Annette, amused, went to find them some drinks at the bar.

“So you dressed in drag _and it worked?”_ Nicolo asked.

“Yup,” said Felix. “Apparently, if you give a woman who has any idea what to do with makeup about five minutes with my face, I’m a passably pretty girl. I had a mild existential crisis the whole evening.”

Annette giggled as she accepted two tankards from the bartender and told him to put it on her tab. “I don’t believe you!” She called over to Felix. “You have too masculine a jawline!”

“Mild. Existential. _Crisis,”_ Felix repeated, although he gave her a merry wave.

“How could you disguise your voice, though?” Ignatz asked. Annette had been wondering the same thing; Felix had a pleasantly deep baritone.

Felix held up a finger, coughed a few times, and then said, in a higher timbre that sounded uncomfortably like a certain Pegasus Knight, “That was the easy part, plus Leonie did most of the talking.”

“Oh, that’s uncomfortable,” said Ferdinand, taking a nervous swig of his ale.

“You androgynous fuck!” called Sabine, cackling.

“It’s the assassin training,” Felix said in his actual voice, giving an exaggerated wink that he had absolutely learned from Sylvain.

“I don’t believe you could pull off the behavioral shift.” Shamir was grinning, goading him. “I didn’t believe that wink for a second.”

Felix snapped to his feet like she’d insulted his mother, and immediately began tugging at the hairband securing his long ponytail. “You wanna try that again? Just ‘cause you’re finally back from whatever bullshit Hubert sent you on doesn’t mean you get to talk shit.”

He was so, _so_ drunk, Annette noted over the rim of her tankard. He had stumbled a bit on rising, and she’d never seen him so animated, maybe ever.

“That’s exactly what it means,” Shamir told him blithely.

Felix was furiously weaving a plait into his hair, tossing it over one shoulder upon completion and sliding out from behind their table. He tugged at the collar of his coat so that it rode lower on his collarbone, and then swept across the room to Shamir’s table, cool as you please. 

Annette had never paid much attention to how Felix _walked_ , of all things, but suddenly she was watching someone completely different cross the room. She had to blink a few times to make sure it was even still the same asymmetric blue coat she’d been watching previously. He was no longer himself, but some woman wearing his clothes.

Felix leaned over her table, crowding her space in a clear imitation of Shamir herself. “The moral of this study,” he said as not-Ingrid, “is don’t fuck with the Cost Effectives.”

“Holy shit!” cried Nicolo, sloshing ale down his front.

But Shamir smiled, and patted Felix’s cheek a few times. “I’m so proud, my little wolf.”

Felix made a face, straightened up, and coughed a few times. “I didn’t miss you,” he said, back in his own cadence.

“Sure, you didn’t.” Shamir then turned to the bartender. “Can you get my friend here another round?”

The bartender shot her a thumbs up, and then Felix said, “Getting better.”

Shamir shrugged. “What can I say? I’m flush with coin from a job.”

“Were you telling mercenary stories?” Annette asked as Felix joined her and Mercedes at the bar.

“Shamir and Nicolo were,” he said. “I kept telling them I don’t have any good ones, but they _insisted_.”

“That was a pretty good one,” Mercedes told him, laughter still crinkling the lines in her face.

Felix rolled his eyes. “That one was Leonie’s favorite, just because she knew it annoyed me. So then it became _my_ favorite, and she had to get a new one.”

An uncomfortable weight settled across Annette’s chest. “Were you two close?” she asked, unsure why or where it had come from.

“I guess?” Felix shrugged. “I ran with the Cost Effectives for a while, but I eventually got tired of picking up her bar tabs.”

His voice was _so_ smooth and _so_ familiar. Being around so many Imperials, Annette was no longer used to hearing the rough, tongue-stuck-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth cadence of Northern Faerghus. It washed over her and warmed her bones, cozy and enveloping like a fire on a cold winter’s night.

“Anyway,” Felix continued, picking up the beer Shamir had ordered for him, “glad you two could make it. Come sit with Ignatz and me.”

Ignatz, as it happened, was also thrilled. “It’s so good to see you!” He enveloped both Annette and Mercedes in their own, friendly hug. “Felix was worried you’d be stuck back at the Academy all night.”

“I wasn’t _worried,”_ Felix snapped, but his face reddened even further.

Mercedes smiled demurely, sliding into the seat beside Ignatz. “It didn’t take Alois much convincing to look after Alessia, but we _did_ need to find him.”

“And who needs to catch up on sleep, anyway?” Annette joked.

“You do,” said Felix. “All the time.”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t still wander at all hours,” Annette said, poking him lightly in the ribs.

Felix started like she’d stabbed him, and too late, Annette remembered that although he may still _seem_ like the same Felix she’d known all those years ago, he very much wasn’t. The scars peeking above the collar of his coat, still sitting where he had tugged it down, were proof enough of that.

They drank and broke bread and chatted together, the expatriates of the countries the Empire had destroyed, and for the first time in a long time, Felix found himself, if not relaxing, at least un-tensing. 

“It’s so unfair,” Annette told him at one point, very much tipsy and with her fingers in the braid he’d never bothered to undo. “Your hair holds such a lovely braid and I can’t even get mine to do this.” She gestured to the bun at the crown of her head, with all its flyaways and wispy stray hairs.

“It’s just a little too high.” His hand was suddenly at the base of her neck, playing with the short, wispy hairs there. “Putting it a little lower would take care of these.”

He didn’t miss how Annette stiffened. “Who made you the expert on hair?” she teased, but her voice was much too high.

It was a conscious effort to take his hand back, one that almost proved too much for his drunken brain. “Do you not see how much of it I have?”

“And this is after I watched the barber chop off a good six inches,” Ignatz pointed out. He was red-faced and swaying lightly on his seat, now. 

“Besides, Annie.” Mercedes giggled. “I’ve told you the same thing.”

“I don’t need this from—hic!—any of you!” Annette declared, taking a long sip of ale.

Felix snorted into his own tankard, and was dismayed to find it empty. “Be back,” he said, then paused when he realized Annette had him pinned in. “Move, wouldja?” He patted her side absentmindedly a few times, like he had with Ingrid a million times.

_Ingrid._

Felix missed how Annette nearly choked on her ale in her scramble to move, but Mercedes and Ignatz didn’t. They exchanged a conspiratorial glance, but before Mercedes could even open her mouth to suggest Annette go with him, Felix was already lost in the crowd.

_Ingrid._

Felix missed his not-sister like his missing eye. She was his conscience, his kick-in-the-ass, his friend. A champion, if he were being honest, but he’d never told her that. He’d admired how resolutely she’d stuck to her ideals and beliefs, even and especially when they’d butted heads because of it. 

_Ingrid._

She was why he had ‘I shall not stray’ tattooed on his back, now. He and Leonie had gone to an artist in Deirdru-New-Enbarr-whatever-the-fuck-it-was after an unexpected windfall from a successful merchant caravan guard contract. Leonie had been wanting to get _blade breaker_ on one wrist and _broken blade_ on the other for a while, but his deciding to get Ingrid’s mantra had been sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing.

He didn’t regret it, though.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Felix glanced over to find Shamir leaning against the bar. “I might only be an ex-duke,” he said, “but they’re worth a lot more than that.”

“Then how about a cigarette and a chat with your mentor?” Her hand clamped down on his arm like a vice.

Felix knew an order when he heard one. “Sure, twist my arm.”

She did, about as jokingly as Shamir did anything, and Felix tried not to wince.

She led them out the pub’s main door and into the town square. It was dark by this time of night, the nearby shops closed and boarded for the evening, the town well still and undisturbed.

Shamir produced a cigarette case from somewhere on her person, taking one for herself and then offering one to Felix. She set about finding her lighter a moment later, but by the time she’d lit her own and offered it out, Felix had lit the end of his with a bit of fire magic.

“Show off,” she said fondly.

Felix shrugged, and took an extended drag. “You took too long.”

They smoked in silence for a moment.

“You know, you had us worried, after that contract in Brigid,” Shamir finally said. “It takes a lot for people like us to just disappear.”

“I had help.” When Shamir cocked an eyebrow at him, Felix added, “Mind you, the Queen of Brigid is not only a schoolmate, but also completely over the Empire’s new policies.”

Shamir snorted. “Nothing like having friends in high places, eh?”

“Certainly helps.” He took another long drag, and Shamir was surprised there was any cigarette left at the end of it.

“So where did you go?” she pressed.

Felix shrugged. “Everywhere, nowhere. Avoided cities, avoided Imperial Enforcers, just…” He sighed. “...avoided, I guess.”

“I know you didn’t come back to Garreg Mach out of the goodness of your black heart,” Shamir said. “Why now?”

Felix stared out over the square like it held the answers to existence. 

“I came seeking answers,” he finally said. “But all I found were more questions.”

“Garreg Mach is known for that, these days.” Shamir took another drag on her cigarette. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“I don’t.” Felix paused. “Do you know why the cathedral is locked up?”

“Presumably because they don’t need it anymore.”

“Then why not repurpose it?”

Shamir glanced to her former student. “That’s exactly what I mean.” She finished her cigarette, grinding the nub into the dirt with the toe of her boot. “I’m going back.”

Felix glanced to his cigarette, still burning. “Give me a few.”

Shamir nodded curtly, and then Felix was alone again.

He glanced skyward, letting out a breath that, in another place and time, might have offered frost up to the goddess. 

In another lifetime, he might have been out here with Sylvain during some reunion year, smoking cigars worth more than their weapons, reliving past glories and sharing the mundanities of their current lives. Of noble responsibilities, wives, politics, maybe kids. Felix had always had a hard time picturing himself as a parent, but Sylvain had been born to a be a dad, once he got his head out of his ass.

Maybe Dimitri would be holding court in some corner of the pub, just as he always had, talking to Dedue and Ashe and whomever else strode into his orbit. Maybe he never would have lost his mind, and later his head, and been whole, unbroken. 

Maybe Ingrid would have convinced her father that she could both become a knight and marry some nobleman somewhere. Maybe it would have been Sylvain; they’d certainly joked about it enough. He could easily picture the riot _that_ wedding would have been.

He wondered whom his date would have been, or if he would have gone alone. His advisors would certainly have done their damnedest to get him married and heired-up as soon as possible, given that he was the last of the Fraldarius line.

_The last Fraldarius Crest-bearer_. The ugly weight of it always punched him in the gut. Edelgard would get what she wanted, after all, and it made him irrationally, unerringly _angry._

“Hey, there you are! When Shamir came back without you, we started to worry.”

He turned, and suddenly found Annette Dominic in arm’s reach, in that damn navy blue dress that exposed her snowy white décolletage.

One part of his brain insisted _no no no this is very bad_ while another insisted _oh oh oh this is very good._

“Just finishing out,” he said, grinding his cigarette under his heel instead of reaching out and crushing her to his chest like he so desperately wanted to. “If you’d given it another minute, I’d have been back.”

Annette shrugged, and Felix felt himself following the movement of her exposed shoulders. “Better to check and be wrong than find you in the morning passed out in a ditch somewhere.”

Felix gave a truly attractive snort. _Well done, capital, you smooth bastard._ “Your concern for my drunk ass is touching.”

“Hey, I like your sober ass too!” 

Felix felt a blush spread from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears, and then, belatedly, watched when Annette flushed a fiery crimson, herself.

“I just meant I like you!” she hurried to say. “Err, you know, we’re friends!”

Felix had to look to his boots; he couldn’t handle looking at her right now. Hope was clutching at his throat and threatening to choke him, and it had no place here.

Did she even feel the same way? Did she even _want_ to? She’d walked in to him telling the story of a cross-dressing assassination contract, for the goddess’ sake. Whatever Felix Hugo Fraldarius was in her memory was not the one that stood before her now, and whatever Annette Fantine Dominic stood before him wasn't the same, either.

Were they even still well-matched?

“Copper for your thoughts?” Annette asked.

Felix latched onto the first thing that wasn’t how much he still wanted to kiss her: “Did you know Sylvain’s brother once threw him down a well, just like this one? We didn’t find him for three days.”

Annette winced, and it stayed behind on her face. “I wondered if you were thinking about him.”

“And Ingrid,” Felix said, irrationally offended at her exclusion. “I know I’ve been drinking without the two of them for almost fifteen years now, but it still doesn’t feel right.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Annette said quietly. “It’s hard to lose the ones we love.”

_I missed you,_ he wanted to say. _I wish I hadn’t been so stupid, back then._

It felt like such a tiny, insignificant thing, what they could have had. None of it mattered anymore, anyway, and dwelling didn’t help a damn thing. It wouldn’t change that he had run off to fight and die in a hopeless rebellion, and it wouldn’t change that Annette had moved on with her life.

And, if Hubert were to be believed, there was an even greater threat hanging over their heads than a few Imperial ex-nobles and the ghosts of people who had once been close to them.

And yet, _this_ is what hurt most of all. For every night he spent alone, staring at the stars, wondering what could have happened if life had gone differently. Wondering. Always fucking wondering.

“You know, I had no idea you were here at Garreg Mach.” Came tumbling from his mouth before he could stop it. “And then I got here, and I was… I mean, I just… Four Saints, _look_ at you!” 

Annette gave a nervous giggle—“I don’t follow.”—and crowded up near him, so that she could look him in the eye even as he tried to study his boots. He found himself stun-locked, lost in those soft, blue-grey eyes that studied him like he wasn’t covered in scars and bad memories and cigarette smoke.

_Words._ He needed _words._

“You’re alive,” Felix finally managed. “And you’re well. And teaching, and _good_ at it. And you have a daughter, who is the cutest fucking thing.”

Annette chuckled breathlessly. “I’m sure you say that to all the moms.”

“Some people make some really ugly babies, so decidedly, no. I do not.”

Annette gave a full-bellied, tinkling laugh, and the sound washed over him like waves in the North Sea. So comfortable, so familiar, so, so much like _home._

He needed to get a grip before his drunk self did something his sober self would regret.

“You surprised me, too, if it makes you feel any better.” She was now leaning against him in her efforts to make him look at her, her warmth spread across his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Mercedes and I have been trying to catch wind of everyone and write letters where we can, but you were always a hard one to find.”

Felix wondered how many of her letters had eventually ended up lost to frustrated couriers, and felt his chest nearly cave in at the thought. She’d been trying to talk to him?

“We didn’t really have a base,” he murmured. “Leonie liked Deirdru, but it was just too painful for her.”

“I can imagine.” Annette, too, had grown softer, quieter. “So, what did you and Shamir talk about? She looked… concerned, I guess is the best word for it.”

“She just wanted to know how I disappeared from Brigid.”

“Well, how did you?”

Felix snorted softly, watching how his breath pushed Annette’s bangs across her forehead. “Had help from the Queen.”

Annette’s smile was dazzling, and left him breathless. “ _Goddess_ , I love Petra. Especially if she helped bring you back to us.”

He felt his gaze become weighted down, flicking towards her lips over and over. She was so close, their heads already bent together. It wasn’t that hard, he could just…

_No_.

It took all of the willpower left in him to gently push her away, so that her eyes were back over there, where they belonged, and he could _think._

Her brow furrowed. “Are you alright, Felix?”

No, Goddess no, he was not alright, and he had never been.

“If I say yes, will you believe me?”

“No,” said Annette, “but I’d understand.”

“Then yes. I’m fine.”

She studied him for a long moment, and Felix couldn’t help but wonder what she saw.

“Let’s get you back inside,” Annette finally said. “Maybe get you another ale.”

Felix tried to shake his head, but it made the world spin, so he immediately put a stop to it. “I think I’ve had enough.”

Annette nodded. “Then, let’s pay our tabs and get you home.”

He barely protested when she pulled him back inside, or when she looped an arm around his waist to steer him back up the hill to Garreg Mach Monastery.

Her hands left lightning in their wake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix and Hubert road trip.

The hangover Felix had been granted the morning after the parents’ weekend binge made the thin slants of light that came in through his dorm window spike into his mind like an abraxas spell.

His stomach lurched as he rolled over, and for a moment, Felix feared he might vomit onto the musty carpet. He settled back into the mattress, trying to piece together what had happened last night.

_Drinking with Ignatz. Talking to Shamir. That one fucking time I had to wear a corset. Talking to Mercedes and Annette…_

Oh.

_Annette._

He had made an ass of himself in front of Annette.

Felix groaned, covered his eyes with his arm, and swore he was never drinking again.

Ignatz, Mercedes, and Sabine were all looking worse for wear this morning, too, Felix noted at breakfast. Annette probably also was, given that she’d convinced Alessia to play “the quiet game” this morning (which, near as Felix could tell, just consisted of guessing how long Alessia could stay quiet for), but Felix was stubbornly avoiding eye contact with their resident black mage, so he couldn’t be sure.

He gave a violent start when he felt fingers at the back of his head, but gingerly fell back into his seat when he heard Mercedes’ accompanying laugh, felt the pulse of her white magic.

“Skittish as ever,” she said, somewhat fondly. 

Felix had to stifle his relieved groan at the magic infusing itself into his skull. “Mercedes, you are a miracle in a cleric’s robe, and I have stood by that statement for twenty years, now.”

“I won’t do it for every hangover,” she warned, taking her fingers out of his hair and moving on to cast heal on Ignatz. “But this one seems only fair.”

“Mama, what’s a hangover?” Alessia asked, before clamping her hands to her mouth (as she had just lost the quiet game).

Annette looked like she was trying to come up with an actual answer, but settled for, “We’ll tell you when you’re older, sweetie.”

Alessia harrumphed, and Felix, once again, had to stifle his laughter at the way Annette’s daughter so perfectly mimicked her mother.

“It’s a thing that happens to adults, sometimes,” Felix heard himself saying. “Typically in clusters like this.”

Alessia’s little grey eyes went wide. “Does it hurt?”

Felix sighed. “Very much so.”

Annette shot him a look like she couldn't decide whether to be grateful or annoyed, and Felix did his best to continue avoiding eye contact.

By midafternoon he was feeling decent enough to head to the training grounds for his office hours, such as they were. Most of his students were still occupied with their parents, but Siegmund von Gehrig seemed to have missed that memo, and came by for fencing training.

Felix had never cursed the clashing of metal-on-metal more than he did that afternoon.

He was just bidding Siegmund a good day and debating whether to stop for lunch or just press on through dinner when he became aware of a shadowy figure coming towards him.

At once, Felix pivoted, bringing his sword back up to striking range, but found it was only Hubert.

The dark mage’s eyebrows raised slightly as he studied the longsword. “Good afternoon, Felix.”

“Oh, Hubert.” Felix brought the weapon back down again. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment?”

Felix glanced around the training room. There was no one here; what was the point of asking? “Alright.”

Hubert folded his hands behind his back, and for a moment, he was twenty years younger and looming behind the short, white-haired girl who would become empress. “I have a mission that I would typically send Shamir on, but given the surrounding circumstances, was wondering if perhaps you might wish to come out of retirement for.”

Felix pressed the tip of the longsword into the ground to lean on it. “I reserve the right to veto any assassination contracts that come my way, and I don’t do anything involving children or animals.”

Hubert’s eyebrows rose again, this time higher. “That… isn’t the mission, but noted.”

“Oh. Well, hell.” Felix straightened back up. “What do you need?”

“I can’t specify here,” Hubert said with a purposeful glance towards the training ground doors. “But I do think you’ll find it quite interesting.”

“You’re really expecting me to hop off on a mission without telling me anything about it?”

“Oh, I’ll be coming, as well,” Hubert said. “Like I said, I would typically ask Shamir, but I think you will _really. Want._ to see this.”

Felix studied him for a long moment. He barely trusted Hubert so far as he could throw him—but then, the Imperial had never been anything but forthcoming so far.

His eyes narrowed. “Is this about your friends from the first week of class?”

Hubert nodded. “Precisely.”

Although Felix continued to study him, Hubert’s face gave away absolutely nothing.

“Alright,” Felix finally said. When do we leave?”

“Preferably in an hour?”

“Fucking shit,” Felix barked, startling into action. “You could have started with that!”

-)

It was well into the week by the time Annette got around to tidying her notes. Between parents' weekend, laundry, and Alessia’s classes, there simply hadn’t been the time. And so Annette sat at her desk well after the final bell, reorganizing bits of magical theory and playing over her last conversation with Felix and Mercedes over in her mind.

_He had pulled them both aside at the dining hall on Sunday, and her first indication that something was wrong was that he was once again dressed in traveling clothes._

_“Hubert’s asked for my help on whatever harebrained scheme he’s got cooking up outside Garreg Mach,” Felix had said without preamble. “If he shows back up without me, do me a favor and raise hell?”_

_“We’ll do a lot more than that,” Annette promised._

_Felix had smiled at her, finally looked at her since the pub. He then reached into the collar of his coat, and pulled out a man’s ring on a chain. “And if there’s no me to bury, would you bury this instead?”_

_“Don’t say things like that,” Mercedes said firmly._

_The chain pooled coolly in Annette’s palm, and the ring, she could now see, was inset with the Fraldarius crest._

_“It’s just in case,” said Felix._

That same necklace now weighed heavily against her collarbone, tucked under her own coat so as not to arouse suspicion. He was coming back, damn it. Whatever Hubert needed him for, _Felix was coming back._

She wasn’t sure she was up to losing him a second time.

“Annette Dominic,” called a voice from the doors, “you’re looking lovely as ever.”

Annette stiffened as she raised her head. “I _thought_ I recognized that voice.”

Markus von Engel hadn’t changed one whit since the last time she’d seen him. He still towered over her like Dedue had, with much the same build, and those soft, grey eyes glinted with intelligence.

“My little sister said I might find you here,” Markus added as he strode up through the rows of desks. “It’s good to see you.”

Annette pointedly stared him down. “What do you want, Markus?”

He looked affronted. “I thought I would drop by to say hello. It’s been a while.”

It had been most of Alessia’s lifetime, or thereabouts, but Annette wasn’t about to bring that up. “For good measure.”

“Oh, come now.” Markus gave her his most winning smile. “You can’t _still_ be angry with me?”

“Oh,” said Annette, “but I can.”

His smile fell. “I had, erm, thought to ask you to dinner? I had a few—”

“Decidedly not,” Annette interrupted. “Now, if you’ve nothing of import to say, get out of my classroom.”

Markus visibly recoiled, and Annette could practically see the gears working in that handsome, vain head. “Allow me to begin again,” he said with a short, very Imperial bow. “Hello, Annette, I would very much like it if you were to accompany me to dinner, as I consider you a friend still, and have been enlisted as the new reason professor.”

_No._

Annette felt her stomach fall through her shoes, and the ground threatened to swallow her whole.

_This can’t be happening._

She had to ask, but knew she would regret it: “And the military just let you go?”

Markus perked up. “For Hubert von Vestra, they’re willing to concede a lot.”

“I see,” said Annette. “Then let’s keep this professional.”

Markus drooped again. “Annie, I—”

“Don’t you _dare_ call me that!”

He winced like it hurt him. “Annette,” he correctly softly, “Annette.”

“I’m certain Ferdinand von Aegir can answer any and all questions you may have,” she said crisply. “Kindly go.”

Finally, _finally,_ he took the hint. “I, erm, shan’t keep you.” He turned to go, but paused at the door. “I _will_ make things right, Annette.”

“No,” she said calmly. “You won’t.”

The shutting door rattled her nerves, and suddenly her notes swam right before her eyes. She buried her head in her hands and tried not to scream.

-)

Hubert filled Felix in on the road as they rode out through what used to be Charon territory, and the more Felix heard, the deeper his brow furrowed.

“You mean to tell me,” Felix said, “that your dear Empress _didn’t_ actually throw out the alliance with this… sorry, you do realize you were a few letters off of their acronym being ‘twisted’?”

Hubert’s brow furrowed as he did the mental math. “Oh, well, I suppose it is.”

“I’m calling them Twisted,” Felix said. “Those Who Slither in the Dark is entirely too long.”

“I don’t much care _what_ you call them,” Hubert said. “Caspar was fond of ‘those slithery bastards.’”

“Also tucking that one away,” Felix said. “Anyway, you mean to tell me that your dear Empress _didn’t_ actually throw out the alliance with this Twisted because it _wasn’t a good time?”_

Venom dripped from Felix’s words, and Hubert knew he had made the right decision in asking him to come along. If nothing else, he was the safest option simply because he wasn’t an Imperial, and would hardly report Hubert for treason, perceived or otherwise.

“Yes and no,” Hubert said. “She was always correct that rooting them out of our ranks would leave us vulnerable to further infiltration, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge that it would _always_ be a bad time.”

“So she refused to cut them loose,” Felix said, “and now they’ve spread out across your grand new Empire, unimpeded, and you’re stuck cleaning up after them?”

“Essentially,” said Hubert, “yes.”

“Well, shit, man,” said Felix.

They rode in silence for a moment.

Hubert glanced over to his unlikely travel companion. If anyone had told him back in school, or even a year ago, that he would be voluntarily bringing Felix Fraldarius along on a mission, he would have had them committed to an asylum posthaste.

That said, he had never doubted the man’s skill, and there was something he still needed to know. “May I ask you something, Felix?” 

“Regarding?”

“Yourself.”

Felix paused to rein in his horse before it skittered too far ahead of Hubert’s. “I reserve the right not to answer.”

Huber took that as an all clear. “After the Battle of Spirits’ Fen, where did you go? I had my men chasing after you for years until they finally gave up.”

For a long moment, Felix said nothing, and the silence that stretched between them was as thin as their alliance. “Fhirdiad,” he finally said. “I dyed my hair blond, got a symmetrical cloak, and went to Fhirdiad.”

“Fascinating,” Hubert muttered, and it was. The former Duke and Margrave had been notable for their personal style as much as their combat prowess. It made sense that, if he shed his favorite coat and dyed his hair, Felix would be nigh unrecognizable to the average passerby. But was hiding in plain sight really so simple? “I presume that allowed you a certain freedom of movement?”

Felix nodded. “Nobody blinked twice at me. First time in my life.”

Being a man with a favorite cloak himself, Hubert also had to ask, “Did you ever get your coat back?” The one Felix currently wore was the same Fraldarius blue and had the same asymmetric hem, but it seemed different, somehow, more subdued. Perhaps it just had more fur?

“No, unfortunately. I’m sure it’s still buried in the mud in Gautier territory, somewhere.” Felix sighed, and Hubert chose to let his choice of diction slide. “I had to commission this one in Deirdru.”

Silence descended again, but this time, it was Felix who broke it: “May I ask _you_ something?”

Hubert supposed it was only fair. “So long as it isn’t a state secret, I shall endeavor to answer.”

“Why did you leave Enbarr? Seemed like you and Edelgard were inseparable, back in the day.”

Hubert winced. That wasn’t a state secret, but he kept it like one. “Ah.”

Felix said nothing, for which Hubert would be eternally grateful. How could he phrase it? What could he say?

“We stopped seeing eye to eye on a great many things,” Hubert finally said. “Rather than continue to bicker, I thought it best to remove myself.”

Felix recoiled in shock, yanking back on the reins to bring himself level with Hubert’s mount. “Wait, you _chose?_ She didn’t reassign you, or something?”

“Oh, no,” said Hubert, glancing over as he felt amber eyes boring into him, “I volunteered for Garreg Mach.”

-)

They traveled deep into Old Faerghus, past the former Galatea lands that made Felix’s heart hurt to contemplate, and into the old Fraldarius lands, which were as much a part of him as his own blood. Felix had not set foot in the former dukedom since the fall of Faerghus, and he had intended to keep it that way for the rest of his life.

_The things I do for answers._

They reached their destination just shy of nightfall, tethering their horses and making camp like this were any other night.

“On my command,” Hubert reminded as he heated their dinner through.

Felix leveled him in a withering look. “I’m a mercenary, not a delinquent child.”

Hubert cracked a wry smile. “Just checking.”

They set out under cover of night proper, leaving dummies in their bedrolls and smoldering embers in the fire. As they crept through the nearby wood, Felix began to realize that this place was utterly silent. A forest, even at night, should have been full of insects and creatures—but this one made no sound. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, made his soldiers’ sense scream at him to get out of there.

Felix would have missed their mark entirely in this cursed darkness if Hubert hadn’t physically halted him with an arm to his chest. Wordlessly, he gestured out into the forest. Felix followed his line of sight and squinted hard, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the starless gloom.

And then he saw it, like a yawning portal into some kind of hell.

They glanced to each other, the swordsman and the dark mage, and then nodded. Felix snuck off towards the left flank, and Hubert, the right. 

Hidden amongst the leaves near the entrance was some sort of guard. He or she was expertly camouflaged, and if Shamir’s coordinates had been anything less than perfect, they would not have found this person until it was far, far too late.

Dark magic slithered across the ground and then crawled up to choke the guard. Felix snapped forward, sword drawn, and stabbed through the guard for good measure. 

The magic fell away silently, and so did the body.

They went in shoulder-to-shoulder, as they had been taught many eons ago. Their soft footfalls left no trace in the dirt of the entrance corridor, no echo in the yawning space. Their shadows danced in the sporadic torchlight, and Felix felt his adrenaline climb the further they went in without meeting resistance.

It wasn’t until they entered the main room that a shout went off and the fight truly began.

Felix darted forward, hacking and slashing with a practiced ease. Most of these folk were mages, not accustomed to close combat. It was easy enough to slip around their guards and slip a blade in their ribs, or through their necks. The ones that weren’t mages only gave him marginally more trouble; the clang of their blades meeting echoed abhorrently in this dark underground.

He heard Hubert shout, “Felix, your left!” mere moments before a blast of dark magic caught him in the ribs.

It filled his lungs and threatened to choke him, and flashes of his final contract with the Cost Effectives echoed in his mind. _No, no, no_ he would not die here, not on his own damn ancestral lands. Gasping for breath, he turned to strike in the direction of the tar spell’s caster, only to come up with nothing. The world began to swim and cloud over in red spots as Felix struggled for air.

He didn’t remember passing out, nor did he remember Hubert ever learning faith magic. But evidently, both things were true, as he came to on the floor of this goddess-forsaken facility with Hubert’s hands glowing green over his chest.

“Come about, now,” Hubert said. “It is all in hand.”

Felix coughed a few times, retching black, sticky tar onto the tiled floor, but his lungs filled with blessed air.

“Thanks,” he managed, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He left black streaks across his worn leather of his glove.

Hubert gave him another blast of healing magic for good measure, and then rocked back to his haunches. “I believe we’ve taken care of all of them, but can you search the perimeter?”

“Yeah.” Felix got to his feet, a touch shakily. “What will you be doing?”

“What I do best.” Hubert flicked a glance to his right, where one of their assailants was restrained against a chair.

Felix had no desire to watch Hubert work. “Got it. Perimeter.”

He chose a door at random, slapping the wall with a lightning spell as he passed to mark his path. The hallway beyond was lit with regular torches, but its branching rooms were devoid of life. There was no one in the bunkroom, the kitchen, the library. Had everyone come to the atrium to defend their bunker? That didn’t sound right, but maybe this space was smaller than they’d thought.

Felix pushed deeper into the gloomy underground complex, his grip tightening on his sword the further in he went without coming across a soul. Surely there was _someone_ down here? They couldn't have all died or disappeared?

Unless they escaped, somehow? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He and Hubert would have targets on their backs after this one—bigger ones—if some of these slithery bastards got out. His adrenaline spiked again, and Felix swore he could hear his heartbeat echo against the stone walls.

_Focus, Fraldarius!_ This was why Leonie had always insisted everyone take a battle buddy with them. It was too easy to get lost in your head on mercenary missions. They weren’t like war, had no large-scale battles or generals shouting tactics. They were usually raids, like this one, clearing out something, fetching something.

The lowest level, Felix discovered, held rows upon rows of cages.

Some were small, like the ones Felix remembered from the Fraldarius kennel. But they grew in size the deeper into the room he went, until they reached a size large enough to hold a child, a man, a monster.

It wasn’t until he reached the far wall and he saw a small, glowing red orb, that Felix realized what this room had been. Why it would need so many cages of such an enormous size.

His stomach seized and threatened to upend itself directly onto the scattering of papers and magical accoutrement. Felix braced against the desk to steady himself, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. 

_Chin up, Fraldarius. You’ve seen worse._

He picked up the red orb off the desk and peered at it, praying that he was wrong, somehow, that this wasn’t what he thought it was. But after a moment, he picked out a familiar, swirling, offset design etched in the orb, one that he would know anywhere.

He dropped the Crest Stone as though burned, and it rolled away from him, catching in a corner of the desk hutch.

“Felix,” called a voice from across the way, “I, um, think you might want to see this.”

“They’re building demonic beasts, down here.” It came out all in a rush as Felix headed towards where Hubert had materialized. “I don’t know where the fuck they got a Crest Stone, or if they have more, but they have...”

He pulled up short at the look on Hubert’s face. It was something akin to pity, mixed with a little shock. Felix’s brow furrowed at first, and he opened his mouth to demand to know what was going on, but then he saw them.

In the room just beyond Hubert’s shoulder, two bone-white weapons were racked on the wall.

“ _No,”_ he murmured, pushing past Hubert. “ _No, no, no.”_

One was a crooked, curved sword that Felix was not personally familiar with, but knew to be Blutgang _,_ the Heroes’ Relic associated with the Crest of Maurice. Marianne von Edmund had wielded it, during the war.

The other was the twitching, crackling spine that made up the Lance of Ruin, the Heroes’ Relic of House Gautier. Its Crest Stone was missing, and Felix realized that it was most likely the one sitting on the desk in the next room, that Twisted had most likely been using it.

That some poor soul had been turned into a demonic crest beast, like Miklan had been. Felix _still_ saw that thing staring him down sometimes, in his nightmares.

“Did you know this was here?” Felix asked, hoarsely. He reached out towards the Lance of Ruin, his hand hovering just above its imperfectly smooth haft.

Hubert shook his head, having come to rest beside him. “When Shamir found this facility, it seemed the most logical place to bring the prisoners from the Battle of Spirits’ Fen. Have you found anything?”

“No, I…”

His hand closed around it, and for the first time in many years, Felix Fraldarius broke.

“...There’s no one here.”

Hubert made no move to touch him, and Felix made no sound as shoulders shook with unshed sobs. This was a goddessdamn disgrace to everything the Heroes’ Relics had ever stood for, right here in his family lands (no matter what they were called).

It was enough to make a man sick.

He whirled on Hubert, even as his vision stung. “Did you know about this facility? Does the Empress?”

Hubert didn’t flinch. “She does.”

“And you’re _allowing_ this… this atrocity?”

“The Emperor and I,” Hubert said, very lowly, “have long since stopped seeing eye to eye on a great many things.”

Felix’s mind was whirling, piecing together a puzzle he had unknowingly chased for most of his life. “Is this what they want the students from Garreg Mach for? _Crest Experiments?”_

Hubert nodded, very slowly.

Felix’s hand tightened against the lance haft. “The purges, the secret police, the raids in the night… they were for _this?”_

Hubert shut his eyes against the weight of his grief. “Some of it, yes. They were tasked with finding a way to remove Crests from a person.”

“She wasn’t satisfied with stripping us of our titles, our lands, our families, our friends, our entire way of life—she wants to _erase us?”_ Felix’s hand was shaking on the lance haft in a way that Hubert had never seen from the steady, Faerghusi swordsman, even when he had faced him on the battlefield all those years ago.

“She wants a society without Crests,” Hubert said, so quietly Felix almost didn’t hear it. “When we were younger, that meant abolishing the nobility and elevating the common folk. But somewhere along the way, it became…” He gestured to the facility in which they found themselves. “…this.”

Tears were streaming down his face now, but Felix stubbornly ignored them. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

He lifted the Lance of Ruin off the wall, and it immediately tipped forward, unbalanced without its crest stone.

Hubert eyed the lance warily. “I would ask the same of you.”

Felix stalked from the room, Lance of Ruin in hand. He had no idea how to fit the Crest Stone back into its slot, but by the goddess, he was going to try. This lance had been the bane and boon of Sylvain’s entire existence, and Felix would see it whole once more.

“Felix, be mindful!” Hubert called, sliding out of the weapons room and back into the horrifying atrium of empty cages. “There may still be mages about!”

“Then I will cut them down,” Felix growled.

If Sylvain’s lance were here, had _he_ been, or had they simply taken it from him? And what of Marianne? If her weapon were here, had _she_ once been, as well? Felix had assumed she died at the Battle of Fhirdiad alongside Dimitri, but perhaps she had been taken prisoner, like Sylvain had been at the Battle of Spirits’ Fen two years later?

“Sylvain’s execution was public,” Felix ground out.

“We executed a red-haired man we called Sylvain Gautier before crowds in Enbarr, yes,” Hubert agreed.

The dark mage winced as Felix overturned a cage in his grief, the echoing crash louder than both of their voices combined. If there were any survivors left in this compound, they would surely know they were here.

“Then where _is_ he?” Felix demanded. “Or where is his body?”

“I don’t know,” Hubert said, and the truth shielded him from Felix’s further wrath when another, bigger cage was overturned. “I don’t know if they brought him here, or elsewhere, or even if he’s still alive.”

Felix had reached the desk, and was determinedly trying to fit the Gautier Crest Stone back into its slotted space in the Lance of Ruin’s head. But whatever mechanism had once held it there had clearly been broken; the Crest Stone would simply roll from its slot, unwilling to stay.

“Felix,” Hubert said, quietly so as not to startle him, “that’s enough.”

_“I’ll tell you when it’s enough!”_ Felix barked, cursing at the Crest Stone when it rolled from the lance head yet again.

Hubert reached out to stop it before it rolled off the desk. “We’ll take it with us. But, please, Felix, _enough_. It isn’t safe here.”

His good eye was wild, tears and snot streaking down his face, and even though Hubert had seen the swordsman reach up and snap a man’s neck without so much as blinking, it was in this moment that Felix seemed truly unhinged.

Hubert wondered if this was what Prince Dimitri had looked like, near his end, or if it was just the vision of a good man pushed too far.

“Sylvain wouldn’t want you to die for this,” Hubert added, praying it were true.

_“Don’t speak his name!”_ Felix was shaking like the last fall leaf, clutching the Lance of Ruin as though it were all that kept him upright.

(It probably was.)

“Know this, Felix.” Hubert finally reached out, clasping his shoulder. The swordsman startled backwards, but the lance and Hubert’s hand kept him steady. “This is not the Adrestia I bled for.”

“ _This is the one we live in,”_ Felix snarled.

Hubert’s hand bit down further into Felix’s shoulder. “Only so long as Twisted remains, and I would sooner see them _burn_. Are you with me?”

The grin Felix cracked was visibly unstable. “Like a burr.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come hang out on twitter for extra nonsense](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix meets Alessia's father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and the next were originally one unit, but I decided I liked them better with a chapter break, so please enjoy this double-update-that-isn't

Annette had always paced the front of her classroom as she instructed, but in the weeks after Felix and Hubert’s departure (and Markus’ arrival), it had reached the point that she was beginning to worry for the rugs in her classroom. Not overly much, as she had never particularly cared for the Adrestian double eagle, but she supposed someone, somewhere would probably complain that a Faerghusi professor had ruined yet another Imperial decoration.

It had certainly happened before.

And so when Ellie Mattingly approached her after her morning faith class, Annette thought nothing of it. “What can I do for you?” she had said.

Ellie had stood there for a moment, staring at her (admittedly, quite stylish) shoes, before bursting out, “Professor, are you okay?”

Annette was taken aback. “Why, yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You, um,” Ellie said, and then it all came tumbling out: “You don’t seem fine, and if you’re feeling unwell I thought maybe I could help, or at least fetch you some tea or a blanket if you have to keep teaching and I…”

“Thank you, Ellie,” Annette cut in gently. “That’s very kind of you. But I’m not unwell, just a bit tired.”

“Oh.” Ellie deflated. “Okay.” Then she perked up a bit again as another idea occurred to her. “Well, do you need Faustine and me to watch Alessia, again?”

Annette laughed. It was no secret those girls adored Alessia, and Annette had occasionally allowed them to keep an eye on her daughter between classes when she had had to run somewhere. Faustine _was_ Alessia’s aunt, after all, even if the father was a shit.

“If I do,” Annette said, “you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay!” Ellie smiled, and departed from the room in better spirits.

Annette loosed a huge sigh once Ellie was out of the room. If she were getting so bad her students were noticing…

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Felix’s father’s ring (for whom else could it have belonged to?) lay heavy on her collarbone, a taunting reminder that although he had been here, he was no longer. She hadn’t been prepared for it to _hurt_ so much, this time. He had only been back for a few months, and she had gone without seeing him for almost fifteen years.

_Although_ , Annette mused blackly, _there’s a difference between missing someone ‘presumed dead’ and ‘presumed alive.’_

She collapsed into her desk chair and pulled some of her class notes towards her. With luck, she might be able to actually organize the notes Markus had so rudely prevented her from fixing last week.

_Markus._ Her brow furrowed at the thought. So far, he hadn’t done much more that aggressively befriend Ignatz and Sabine, although Mercedes put a quick stop to that in her usual, deceptively passive way. But anxiety gnawed at her stomach the longer he remained, and she had a bad feeling it would only continue to do so.

Magical charts and diagrams swirled across the pages of her notebooks, and more than once, Annette regretted not sending Ellie for tea, after all. At least then she might have something around to take her mind off of Felix’s growing absence.

_He’s never leaving without me again,_ Annette vowed, surprising herself with her own vehemence. She blushed, a little, and was grateful she hadn’t said it out loud. What had gotten into her, lately? Certainly, Felix had survived as a mercenary just fine all these years, and he had gone off all the time during the war, usually with Sylvain or Ingrid or both.

_Although_ , she supposed, _that’s exactly the problem_. He had no Sylvain, and no Ingrid.

“Excuse me, Professor Dominic?” came a familiar drawl from the classroom doors. “I have a question?”

Her heart stopped, and she tried to will it to restart as her head snapped upwards.

Relief washed over her bones, and before Annette knew it, she was out of her chair and pelting across the flagstones. She careened into him with the force of a small charger, and to his credit, Felix only let out a startled “oof!” before catching them both against the doorframe.

“I’m so, _so_ glad you’re safe,” Annette said, throwing her arms around him and burying her nose in the soft fur of his coat.

“Um,” said Felix. His hands were hesitant as they came to rest at her waist.

For a moment, time froze around them, parting as though they were rocks in a stream. Had Garreg Mach always been so cold, Annette wondered? And if it hadn’t, why was she suddenly shivering?

“Professor Dominic, I—oh!” A crash came from directly beside them in the doorway. “Pardon me!”

Felix and Annette jumped apart like they’d been scorched.

“Professor von Engel!” Annette managed, her voice far too loud and heart pounding far too much. “What are you doing here?”

“I _had_ come to ask if you’d join me for tea,” Markus said, stooping to pick up the books he’d dropped. “I had a few questions about the reasons classes I’m to teach.”

“I can’t, today.” Annette powered through the blush igniting across her cheeks. “I’m quite busy.”

Markus cocked an eyebrow and _damn him,_ Annette wanted to melt into the floor and take this entire classroom with her. She could do that, right? Sagittae could do that?

“Are you certain?” Markus asked. “It would only take a few—”

“You know,” Felix inputted, “where we come from, when a lady says no, it’s typically interpreted to mean _no.”_

Markus finally looked down his nose at the swordsman. “Terribly sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Markus von Engel, the new reason professor. And you might be?”

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius.” He reached out and shook, immediately noting the lack of callouses and scars on the mage. “I’m the swordsmaster, and likely, you’re taking those reasons classes from me.”

“Oh?” Markus’ thin eyebrows raised. “They have a swordsman teaching reason?”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about this man, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. How big was the von Engel family, exactly? “Mortal savant, actually.”

“Ah,” said Markus. “The old ‘why master one thing when you can passably handle two’?”

Fury unlike any Annette had previously held erupted in her gut. Had Markus ever _seen_ a Faerghusi knight in battle? If they couldn't lance you through on horseback, they’d duel you with a sword, and if they couldn't duel you with a sword, they'd chop your head clean off with an axe, and if they couldn't get to you with an axe, their fists would do just fine.

And that was just the physical units. If the enemy survived the first cavalry strike, it wasn’t long before the mages would follow, raining wind and fire and Goddess-knew-what-else. It was an unspoken fact, amongst the Empire, that the only reason Fhirdiad had fallen was due to an utter lack of numbers on the Kingdom’s part.

And it was a spoken fact, albeit not often, that the reason the Gautier Rebellion had lasted as long as it did was because of Sylvain Jose Gautier’s personal cavalry unit, who had embodied all of that and then some—with panache.

“If it’s the reason classes you had questions about,” Felix responded coldly, “I’m right here.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright,” Markus said, a touch too immediately for Felix not zero in. “It’s quite technical, and I…”

“Nonsense,” Felix said, giving the reason mage a ‘friendly’ pat on the back that made him start. “I’m certain I can answer your questions about my _basic_ reason class.” He steered them towards the door, offering an, “I’ll see you later, ‘Nette,” over his shoulder as they went.

Annette watched in stunned silence as Felix two-steps-shy-of-frog-marched Markus from her classroom.

She suddenly felt very lightheaded, but the sight was glorious.

-)

Felix had only gone into Annette’s classroom to ask for his ring back; he hadn’t intended to babysit Ironfang’s oldest son all afternoon.

For, oh, that’s who this was, alright. It hadn’t taken Felix long to put two and two together—even if they hadn’t looked so similar, they both had the same dickbag personality. Felix would have much rather spent the afternoon doing almost anything else.

But Annette had looked so terrified when Markus had come into her classroom. She’d said no to a date (for Felix was no fool, and knew exactly what this was supposed to have been), only to have her autonomy rebuffed. Regardless of any of his personal feelings on Annette’s romantic life, _that_ would not stand.

Plus, friends looked out for each other, right? This wasn’t any different from the million derailments he’d fielded for Leonie or Ingrid, right?

(The roar in his chest told him this was very much different, and very much worse.)

The worst part was, Markus von Engel had actually asked some very good questions, most of which revolved around where Felix’s classes were, currently, and what the expectation of their further training would be. He seemed like he also took Felix’s advice on his problem students to heart, and overall seemed an intelligent, thorough professor.

And yet Felix was left with some nagging feeling, deep in the recesses of his mind, that he was missing something.

“That wasn’t too technical, eh?” Felix poked. Their tea had long since gone cold, and they had reached the end of his pre-prepared reason lesson plans (which were not terribly many).

“I suppose not,” Markus agreed. He had grown somewhat less prickly as Felix had proven himself to be an actually competent mage. “It seemed far more complicated in my head, you know?”

“Sure,” said Felix.

“Well, then.” Markus clapped a hand to his leg and moved to stand. “Thanks again for the refresher course. I shan’t keep you from your business any longer.”

“Not a problem,” said Felix, although it was. It was at least slightly more honest than ‘any time.’

They gathered their notes and moved to go, Markus volunteering to take the teapot back to the mess hall. Which was just as well, since Felix heard a high-pitched “Uncle _Felix!”_ about ten seconds before he was, for the second time today, nearly tackled by a Dominic woman.

“Hey, Alessia,” Felix said, patting her head as she clung to him.

“Mama didn’t tell me you were back!” She was trying to pout, but was clearly too excited to manage it.

Felix snorted. “I’ve only just arrived.”

Alessia turned those big, grey eyes on him, and that nagging feeling roared back at full force. “Will you play ball with me?” she asked.

“You’d better ask your mama, first,” Felix said. “Don’t want her worrying about you, do you?”

“No,” said Alessia, finally letting go of him.

Felix turned to Markus—“Duty calls, I suppose.”—and two things occurred to him.

One, Markus von Engel had grown quite still, and two, his eyes were the exact same shade of grey as Alessia’s.

It suddenly occurred to Felix why Annette wouldn’t be happy to see him, why he would have been pressing and pressing and pressing for a date.

“Of course,” said Markus, somewhat distantly. “Give my regards to Annette.”

Felix would most certainly not be doing that. Nor would he be the reason Alessia learned more than Annette had already told her. “Come along, then,” Felix said to the little one. “Let’s find your mama.”

-)

“That spell is amazing,” Annette murmured to Felix as they watched Alessia chase yet another green ball of light across the Garreg Mach courtyard near the classrooms.

“Isn’t it?” Felix said. “My father was a genius.”

Annette had brought her notes and a blanket with her, and had spread across a soft patch of grass with her work. It was a relief, not to having to entertain Alessia _and_ try to get her class notes in order. She would have to ask Felix to teach her that spell so that she could entertain her rambunctious child when he wasn’t around.

But the thought echoed wrongly in her mind, so she brushed it away.

It was unseasonably warm for late Red Wolf Moon in Garreg Mach, and Annette and Felix had both shed their heavy, outer furs. She continued to find herself drawn to the sharp lines of Felix’s shoulders, to the long, lean lines that made up the man himself. She would then, inevitably, avert her eyes in embarrassment if he even so much as turned in her direction, and her eyes would then be drawn to her own soft arms and tummy, and she would wince.

The whole process was making it difficult to get anything done.

“Do you have her in magic classes, yet?” Felix asked Annette at one point when Alessia was out of earshot.

Annette sighed. “Not yet, no.”

Felix recoiled, surprised. “How old is she, again?”

“She’s eight,” Annette said, “turning nine in Ethereal Moon.”

“You need to get this child in classes, or at least a tutor,” Felix said, more firmly than most anything he ever said about Annette’s parenting style. “She’ll hurt herself.”

“I know, I know,” said Annette. It was a very old argument she frequently had with herself. “I just… want her to be a kid for a little longer.”

Felix was suddenly taking up a spot beside her on the blanket, and Annette hadn’t even seen him move. _How_ did he do that? He brought one knee to his chest and rested an elbow on it, the picture of nonchalance.

Then he leaned towards her and said, very lowly, “Is it because of your Crest?”

Annette shivered, partially from the timbre of his voice, so near her ear, and partially from what he’d actually said. “What if she has my Crest, Felix?” She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them. “Oh, it would be _awful_. I can’t stand to think of what could happen to her.”

“If she does have it,” Felix said, “she’ll end up an excellent war mage.” He paused, and then added, even softer, “Just like her mama.”

“I don’t want to bring her into a world that will hate her.” There was a wetness starting to form around her eyes, but Annette was stubbornly ignoring it. “Not when I could save her.”

“She’s already here,” Felix reminded her, about as gently as he ever did anything. “And you’re not doing her any favors keeping her in the dark like this.”

Annette squeezed her eyes shut. “You think I’m being selfish.”

“Not exactly.” He sighed, and then the weight of an old argument unfurled under his words: “But either she has the Crest or she doesn’t, already. Not testing her for it is only putting off the inevitable.”

It struck a chord in the recesses of her mind, and suddenly, Annette was back in Garreg Mach, a student herself.

_It had been the beginning of one of their advanced reason classes, consisting of herself, Sylvain, Felix, Lorenz, Hubert, Dorothea, and Lysithea, and somehow had gotten on the topic of Crests._

_“And should any of my_ _children bear the Gloucester Crest,” Lorenz had said, “they most certainly will be!”_

_“You don’t need to test them for it right away,” Sylvain argued, somewhat hotly. “You can let them be kids for twenty minutes; it won’t hurt you.”_

_“For shame!” Lorenz said, putting a melodramatic hand to his heart. “They need to know if they carry the glory of House Gloucester!”_

_“No, they don’t,” Sylvain said, “you do.”_

_“Either way...” Felix had suddenly appeared between them. He was starting to move more quietly, now, starting to disappear into backdrops more often. “…they either have it, or they don’t. Putting off testing only delays the inevitable.”_

_A deep, dark hurt had spread in Sylvain’s eyes, but Felix wasn’t finished:_

_“But maybe ask yourself why you fuckin’ care so much, Lorenz.”_

“Mama! Uncle Felix!” Alessia was suddenly before them. “Look what—mama?” The little, green ball she had been holding immediately fell to her feet. “ _Mama!_ What’s wrong?”

There was such distress in her tiny voice; it made Felix’s heart twist. He wondered how often this had happened in her short life.

“Your mama is sad, little wolf.” Felix said. “You should give her a big tackle-hug, yeah?”

Alessia followed orders admirably, charging into Annette with all the force in her little body. Annette’s tears quickly turned to laughter, her arms coming up to bring her daughter in close. Alessia shrieked in delighted giggles.

“Your uncle is being a butt,” Annette said conspiratorially. “You should tackle him, too.”

“Whoa, no, I—oof!” The wind was knocked out of his lungs by an Alessia-shaped projectile.

“You. Be. Nice. To. My. Mama!” Alessia ordered, punctuating each word with a thump from her tiny fists.

“Oof, I yield!” Felix said, bringing his arm up to block as though it still held a shield. Annette held her stomach as she laughed, and it was nearly worth the tiny onslaught to see the joy in her face.


	10. Chapter 10

When Felix swept into his homeroom for the firs time since getting back, he was not prepared for the utter outpouring of “Professor Fraldarius!” and excitable hugs from his students.

“Eh?” Felix said, baffled as yet another of the Violet Owls sheepishly let go of him and took their seat. “I was only gone two weeks.”

“Oh, but our substitute was positively _dreadful,”_ Ellie said.

“Hey!” Faustine said. “My brother is trying his best!”

“You don’t have to defend him,” Eberhard said gently. “You also thought he was horrid.”

Faustine made a face at him, but said nothing.

“You might want to keep that to yourself, Ellie,” Felix told her. “He’s to be the new reason professor.”

An audible groan went up from the class. “Are you sure you can’t keep teaching reason?” Siegmund asked. “Your classes are way more interesting.”

Felix shook his head. “Swords are what I do best.” And lances. And bows. And passably fists. But his students didn’t need to know all that. “And speaking of—shall we get to it?”

They settled in for their weekly swords lecture, and Felix realized about midway through that his shoulders had finally relaxed.

-)

_Rain pelted the muddy grounds of Spirits’ Fen that dreadful night. It was getting caught in his eyes no matter how often Felix yanked his hood forward, and he was running out of Imperials to curse for it._

_“This is fuckin’ miserable,” Felix muttered, not really to anyone._

_The golden haft of the lance of ruin glittered in the dying twilight as Sylvain shifted to rest more comfortably in his saddle. “You always say the nicest things, Fe.” He flashed a dazzling smile that not even the gloom and mud could dim._

_Felix ignored it. “Are you certain it’s tonight?”_

_Sylvain nodded, the smile dropping. “Yeah. We did the math thrice.” He paused, fiddling with something on his saddle. “Although if they don’t want to show up tonight, I’m perfectly alright with packing up and going home.”_

_It hadn’t yet been long enough since the fall of Fraldarius territory for the word ‘home’ not to make Felix’s insides twist in fury._

_“Do you think it’s really Edelgard herself?” Sylvain asked. “Or that’s a rumor?”_

_“It’s like as not,” Felix said. “She doesn’t half-ass much.”_

_They passed Felix’s flask back and forth a few times, trying to keep warm in these accursed northern Faerghus wastes. Twilight gave way to dusk, gave way to true night, and still, their cohort remained. Sylvain gave the order and then torches went up, giving away their position but at least ensuring no one would die of cold tonight, before the enemy came._

If _they ever came._

_“Do we call it?” Sylvain asked, long after both he and Felix had frozen stiff to their saddles._

_“I don’t…” Felix paused. “Wait, do you see that?”_

_Sylvain followed Felix’s line of sight to the horizon, and for a long moment, nothing moved._

_And then red-and-gold banners came into view, followed by an enemy force easily twice their size. Sylvain immediately let off a burst of fire magic, and the torches around their cohort began snuffing out, one by one._

_They froze, waiting. It took Felix’s eyes an excruciatingly long moment to adjust to the new darkness. He had just caught a glimpse of awful, black wings silhouetted against the moon, before a blast of magic from the enemy side spurred him into action._

_Red eyes burned on the horizon._

Felix sat up sharply, his breathing wild. He clutched at his chest, looking for the wound he’d sustained that night.

It took him far, far longer than it should have to realize it wasn’t there.

He curled into himself in his bed, willing his breathing to steady and his mind to come to heel. The Battle of Spirits’ Fen had been years ago; it couldn’t hurt him now.

That monster wasn’t here, now.

It had haunted his memory for as long as he could remember—those nascent, black wings, long, gangly limbs, and burning, red eyes. Felix had long since given up on trying to make sense of it. It had been like a Crest Beast and then some, cleaving through his and Sylvain’s forces with the ease of a child wrecking sandcastles.

_“Felix!”_ A banging came from his door. “Open this door this instant!”

Felix started, and then tumbled from his bed, swearing the entire time. He landed with a heavy thud and sharp crack.

“ _I’m coming in!”_ called the voice, this time higher pitched and with notes of panic.

“Don’t—!” Felix began, putting a hand to his head and reaching out as if to stop them.

But it was too late.

A blast of magic banged his door right open, and then Annette stood in his doorframe in her nightdress, illuminated by the flickering light of the jar candle she held.

“Felix!” she said, again, sweeping into his personal space like it was nothing at all. “Are you alright? I heard shouting.”

“Fine,” he grunted, gingerly poking at the lump forming on his skull. “You didn’t need to break down my damn door; it was just a nightmare.”

“Oh.” Annette turned very, very red. The blush crept up her face and down her neck, disappearing into the neckline of her sleeping shift.

Felix had to tear his eye away from it. “What did you think it was?”

“I didn’t know,” Annette offered. “I just… well, you haven’t been exactly right since you came back, so I, well…”

She continued to babble, but Felix had long since been knocked speechless. Partially because here he thought he’d been doing a fine job of pretending like he hadn’t found anything particularly fucked up on that mission with Hubert, and partially because, well, was she really paying close enough attention to him to notice the cracks?

“Let me at least fix that for you,” Annette said, and suddenly she was right beside him, healing magic forming in her palm.

“It’s fine, ‘Nette,” Felix said, his voice tight in his throat. Even if any idiot could tell what she was doing, it felt… indecent, to let her so close in nothing but their night clothes. She was kneeling over him, for the Goddess’ sake, nearly in his lap. “’M fine.”

She ignored him and focused instead on the lump forming on his head. She brought his hand away from it and settled her fingers over it, pressing it into the floor so that he wouldn’t get in her way. Felix had forgotten she stuck her tongue out when she concentrated; he could see it now, pink and wet in the flickering candlelight.

He couldn’t breathe.

Waves of her soft healing magic fell over him, bright and lively, this feeling once as familiar to him as his own skin. She had healed him countless times during the war, saved him from broken arms and ribs and lacerations that should have killed him. Why did this somehow feel so much _different?_

It wasn’t until she finally withdrew that Felix could feel himself breathe, again. “Come have tea, with me,” Annette said softly.

He was powerless to refuse her, and always had been.

-)

The Knights’ hall was deserted at this time of night, its fire smoldered down to embers. Felix poked at it a few times to get it to relight as Annette fiddled with a kettle behind him. They settled into the couch as the water warmed over, Annette spooning tea leaves into tin cups for them.

It was all so delightfully domestic; Felix barely knew what to do with it, let alone the feeling in his chest.

With nothing left for her hands to do, Annette was left to wring them in uncertainly. For a long moment, Felix could only stare at them, will himself not to reach out, touch her, touch them.

“Do you want to talk to me about it?” Annette finally asked.

“Not really,” Felix said.

She winced at him, and it made his heart twist again.

“Is that so that you can spare me the details,” Annette asked, “or because you genuinely don’t want to?”

“Is ‘both’ an answer?”

“I suppose.” Annette sighed. “But really, Felix, I was in the war, same as you. You can’t scare me with whatever monsters you’ve found.”

“ _Don’t.”_ It came out softly, far less harshly than he had intended, more like pleading than an order.

“Felix,” Annette murmured, and suddenly his hands were in hers, and she was looking up at him with those _eyes._ “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He was trapped, a deer in a hunter’s sights. He would have said she’d done it masterfully, but he knew Annette wasn’t purposefully doing anything beyond what she would for anyone. It was just tea and a chat, her and Mercedes’ known specialty.

But oh, how it ached.

“The Lance of Ruin,” Felix burst out. “Hubert found the Lance of Ruin.”

Annette’s eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t realized it was missing; I thought the Empire had gathered all the heroes’ relics after the war.”

“So did I,” Felix murmured.

Hubert had told him that had been propaganda, of course, and that he himself had wondered why Sylvain’s relic had never turned up in Enbarr. Felix knew he was walking a fine line between telling Annette a version of the truth, and the whole one, and that the latter could very easily get her killed.

And him along with her.

Annette squeezed his hands affectionately. “That must have been quite a shock.”

“It was missing its Crest Stone,” Felix murmured, sounding very far away. “Didn’t think the damn thing could look any more nightmarish, but it can, turns out. You just take away the Crest Stone.”

Annette’s brow furrowed, her mind wandering to her own family’s Crest Weapon, the magic hammer, Crusher. “Those things come out?”

“I don’t think it was meant to. The lance head was broken.”

Annette studied him for a long, quiet moment.

“So, what happened to it? After you got back?”

“Hubert took it.” Felix had to shut his eyes again, both to her, and his grief. “It has to go in some Imperial vault and never see the light of day, you know. At least until they figure out how to destroy them.”

_“Goddess,”_ Annette swore. “Is nothing sacred?”

“They scrapped the church. You know the answer to that.”

Annette sighed, and silence fell once again.

“What happened to your Aegis?” She finally asked. She was fiddling again, running her thumb over the scars on his hand. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Felix couldn’t look at her, couldn’t handle those eyes. “Empire took it,” he said, quietly. “After the battle of Spirits’ Fen.”

He missed that shield like he missed his right eye. It had saved his life on countless occasions, never bearing so much as a scratch from the polearms and the swords and even the mage fire it deflected. It had protected his father, and his father before him, all the way on down to Fraldarius herself, and having it wrenched from his shaking hands and thrown in some Imperial treasure vault somewhere had hurt nearly as much as the axe-wound in his chest had.

“I understand.” Annette was suddenly upon him, and all around him. “That’s exactly how it felt when they took Crusher.”

Felix realized exactly two things in that moment:

One, he had said all of those things out loud.

Two, _merciful Goddess,_ Annette wasn’t wearing a corset.

She clung to him, now, squeezing for all her worth. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire, screaming at him to please, _please_ make it stop (or better yet, to make it _go)_. She was as close, and as far away, as his ability to make his hands move.

She released him almost as suddenly, scuttling backwards across the couch like she’d been burned. “Sorry! I should know better; you aren’t really a hugging sort of person.”

Felix tried to smile, but it was twisted, wrong. “No, but you are.”

“I’m not the one hurting,” Annette said. 

Felix seriously doubted that.

“What axe-wound?” Annette asked quickly.

Felix blinked. “What?”

“You mentioned an axe-wound. Were you injured on your mission with Hubert?”

Yes, but that wasn’t what he’d referred to. “I, um.” Dammit, why’d she have to ask? “I took an axe to the chest at Spirits’ Fen.”

Annette’s blue-grey eyes widened, glassy in the firelight. “ _Goddess,_ how’d that happen?”

Felix looked to his hands again. They were cold, suddenly, without hers atop them. “I was covering Sylvain’s flank. He was an idiot, you know, never watching all his sides.”

“He knew you would be there,” Annette said, quietly.

The teapot mercifully began to squeal, leaving Annette with something to do with her hands. She fussed with the tea cups, adding an obscene amount of sugar to one before passing off the other to Felix and settling into the opposite end of the couch.

His body cried out for her missing warmth, but he sat there, stupidly, saying nothing, blowing across the surface of his tin mug until he could drink without scalding his throat. His father would be embarrassed at his fallen etiquette. 

“Thanks,” Felix finally managed, at the same time Annette said, “Sorry, all I had was breakfast tea.”

It was too weak by half, but Felix was never going to say that out loud, not when she’d gone through such an effort on his account.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Annette made a face and then retreated into her tea cup again. Why was she closing off? Panic rose in his throat—had he done something wrong? Said something? She’d prodded for details, hadn’t she?

“’Nette?” he ventured.

She stared into the depths of her mug for so long, Felix figured she hadn’t heard him. “Annette?”

“I heard you.”

Great. Now what? “Did… I say something?”

Annette firmly shook her head, and Felix was about to ask again, but then his sharp battlefield eye landed on the glittering wetness in the corners of her eyes.

_No, no, no._ He couldn’t have _predicated_ a worse outcome. “Annette, I…”

Against his better judgment and base nature, Felix reached out towards her, tugging her mug from her fingers and setting it beside his, on the floor. She offered no resistance when he brought her into his chest, and she dug her fingers into his shirtfront like a startled housecat. Felix cradled her head to his shoulder, and Annette pressed every soft curve of herself into every available sharp plane of himself.

_Four saints,_ this woman would be the death of him.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Annette hiccupped, trying to extract herself after a few moments and failing dismally when Felix refused to move. “You’re the one with the nightmares and I’m making this about me.”

Felix’s brow furrowed, even though there was no way Annette could see it. “I don’t follow.”

“ _You’re_ the one waking up in a screaming fit because you found your dead best friend’s broken relic weapon, and _I’m_ here wondering if the reason you’re seizing up when I hug you is because you hate me because _mine_ is still alive.”

Felix found it very difficult not to laugh, because that was the single most _Annette_ statement he had ever heard. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I don’t hate you.” He winced at himself, and tried to soften the blow. “I’m grateful that Mercedes has been there with you this whole time.” _When I couldn’t be,_ he left unspoken.

“I can’t imagine life without her,” Annette admitted to the buttons on his nightshirt.

“Then don’t.” He squeezed, trying to convey the sort of warmth she usually did. “You don’t have to.”

“Sorry,” Annette said again, ambiently.

That was _enough._

“Alright, listen to me very closely.” Felix carefully tipped her head back to look at him with two fingers under her chin. She stared back, and not for the first time, Felix wished he knew how to tell her _exactly_ what he was thinking. “If you ever hear _anything_ close to ‘I hate you’ coming out of my mouth, do us a both a favor and stab me, because that isn’t me.”

Annette breathed in sharply; Felix could feel it, near his ribs.

“You hear me?” Felix prodded.

“I hear you,” Annette murmured, the undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite identify in her voice.


	11. Chapter 11

It was, in Felix’s humble opinion, too damn early for a teachers’ meeting. But there they all were, gathered in what used to be the war room. He half expected Sylvain to lean into his personal space to make some snarky comment, followed by Ingrid’s sharp elbow in his ribs, any minute now.

“Which brings us to our next order of business,” Hubert was saying. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, the winter ball is at the end of this month, and with it, the Emperor’s annual visit.”

Felix was most certainly _not_ aware that the Blood Eagle was going to be anywhere near here. He tried to catch Mercedes’ or Annette’s eye across the table, but neither was looking at him.

“A as reminder, kindly inform your students they are to be on their best behavior while she is here,” Hubert continued, “and should she wish to speak with any of you, you are of course granted dispensation to do so”

“Is that normal?” Felix asked. He felt all eyes in the room turn to him, and he had to fight the urge to hide behind his coffee mug. Once an introvert, always an introvert—commanding armies had never changed that. “The Emperor, wanting to talk to us teachers?”

Understanding flickered in Hubert’s eyes. “Not typically, no. But Her Majesty does like to drop into our classes from time to time during her visit.”

“Got it.” Felix gave up, and took a long sip of coffee.

Hubert nodded to him, and then continued. “Our last order of business I will leave to our dear Deputy Headmaster.”

They switched places, with Hubert taking a very weary seat and a very excitable Ferdinand springing to his feet to stand at the head of the table. He proceeded to excitedly babble about decorating for the winter ball, and Felix promptly tuned him out. 

_The winter ball._

Felix remembered this from his own years at Garreg Mach. It was an excuse for the stir-crazy young nobles to dress up and the clever ones to get drunk. In Felix's case, he’d been lucky Sylvain was both. He, Sylvain, and Dimitri had spent much of the evening slipping whiskey into their cups, and by the end of the night he’d felt warm and fuzzy to the point that both Ingrid’s lectures and the biting cold had barely registered. 

Annette has even gotten him to dance, which his friends considered to be nothing short of astounding. Felix figured he’d snapped something back, probably, but mostly he just remembered how pretty Annette had looked in her silvery gown that night, how warm she had been in his arms as they moved across the dance floor. 

He might have also said some embarrassing shit that night, but he supposed one of the very few upsides to losing all your friends in a hopeless war was that no one was around to remember the embarrassing bits. 

He wondered, vaguely, if the students still told tales of the goddess tower. It was boarded up now, alongside the cathedral, so where did young lovers go to make their stupid wishes? The fishing pond?

“And that concludes our faculty meeting for this morning.” Hubert’s sharp, smooth voice cut Felix abruptly out of his memory. “Thank you all for being here.”

He stood to go alongside the rest of the faculty, stooping to pick up his unfortunately empty mug. He found Annette and Mercedes, who were assisting Hanneman with getting out of his chair and onto his feet, and somehow became the old man’s brace. Annette took his coffee cup from him before he could protest. 

“Thank you, Felix,” Hanneman said. 

“Sure.” Felix assisted with maneuvering him out of the room, wondering if he could ask Annette and Mercedes about the Empress with him there. 

“Terribly sorry, but Felix? Might I borrow you a moment?”

The four of them froze, and then Felix, carefully, said, “Sure, Hubert. Hang on.”

“You can lean on me, Hanneman,” Mercedes said kindly, offering her arm to the old man. Although Hanneman looked concerned, Felix knew better and promptly handed him off. 

He then followed Hubert back into the old war room, folding his arms across his sternum. “Alright.”

Hubert was studying him, and Felix wondered what he could possibly take stock of that he didn’t already know. “Two things, I suppose. One—are you quite alright?”

Felix startled. “Am I what?”

“You seemed…” Hubert paused, searching for a diplomatic word. “... out of it, during the meeting.”

It was too early to think of a lie, and so Felix said, “This used to be our war room. I was just… lost in thought, I guess.”

Hubert’s thin eyebrows rose. “I see.” He turned to study the room. “Yes, I suppose this would make an excellent planning chamber. Plenty of room, and chalkboards already installed.”

Felix nodded, numbly. “I used to sit there.” He gestured to where the tactics professor had been, mere minutes ago. “And Sylvain was next to me, and Ingrid next to him.”

Understanding filtered into Hubert’s expression. “Ah, I see.” He paused, as if debating something. “And where was Prince Dimitri, in all this?”

“There.” He gestured to where Hubert had been running the meeting from, and then something snapped inside Felix, and suddenly he couldn’t stop. “And Annette and Mercedes were there.” He gestured to where Sabine and Nicolo had sat. “And Gilbert was there.” To the corner where there was currently a vase full of flowers. “And Ashe was there.” To where Ferdinand had been. “And after a while, my father was even there.” To where Felix himself had been sitting, during the meeting. “And Dedue stood there, behind his king.” To where there was now a hideous double-headed eagle embroidered on a tapestry.

Felix gave a great shudder, and shut his good eye. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Just ignore me.”

For a moment, both men were quiet. 

And then Hubert said, “No wonder you seem lost, in a room full of ghosts.”

Felix’s eyes snapped open. Hubert didn’t _seem_ like he was calculating something, but it could be hard to tell with him. “What was the other thing you wanted?”

“Oh, that.” Hubert cleared his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “I’ve made arrangements for the Lance of Ruin and Blutgang. Kindly don’t mention them to the Emperor, should the opportunity arise.”

This time, it was Felix’s eyebrows that shot up. “Are you… keeping secrets from your Emperor?”

“In a manner, I suppose.” Hubert’s face didn’t change. “There’s simply no need to burden her.”

Felix sincerely doubted it was that magnanimous. “Noted.”

There was an awkward pause. 

“That was all,” Hubert said.

“Got it,” Felix said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He couldn’t get out of the war room fast enough.

-)

Hanneman continued to protest all the way down the stairs. “Really now, I don’t mean to be a bother!” 

“You’re hardly a bother,” Mercedes said, and the same time Annette said, “We don’t mind at all!”

“Don’t be preposterous,” Hanneman groused. “This _must_ be inconvenient for you.”

Mercedes smiled demurely. “Not at all,” she said, even though his heavy leaning on her arm was starting to tweak her shoulder.

“Mercie, will you be alright if I drop this off in the dining hall?” Annette asked, tapping Felix’s empty coffee mug.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Mercedes said. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

Annette bid them her farewells and then split off, leaving Mercedes to navigate Hanneman the rest of the way to his office. They had moved it from the second floor to the corner of the dorms, where Professor Byleth had actually used to sleep. Mercedes made sure he was settled in before bidding farewell.

She turned to leave, and nearly ran into Markus von Engel.

“Mercedes,” he said, warmly. “You’re just the woman I wanted to see. Do you have a moment?”

Mercedes’ smile grew high and tight. “Not particularly. Is there something important you needed?”

His face fell. “It will just take a moment. Might I accompany you wherever you’re going?”

Mercedes set off at a brisk pace. “I’ve classes this morning, so it will be a short walk.”

“Straight to the point, then.” Markus fell into step beside her with irritating ease. “I’m growing concerned with the amount of time Annette and Alessia are spending with that Professor Fraldarius.”

“I fail to see how that’s your business.”

“He’s a war criminal! At the very least, Alessia is my daughter, and I--”

“I further fail to see how _you’ve_ proven yourself her father,” Mercedes interrupted. “Might I also remind you that, per the Enbarr Accords of 1191, Felix is no more war criminal than your own father.”

Markus winced. “I suppose it may have been a poor choice of words, but really, now. As an Imperial yourself, surely you’ve grown concerned?”

Mercedes whirled on him. “You can cease with your thin attempts to eliminate your perceived rival through Annette’s best friend. I don’t think I need to remind you that she can’t stand the sight of you.”

“I can fix that,” Markus mumbled.

“Had you been honest from the start of the relationship, then perhaps,” Mercedes said. “But the fact remains, _you weren’t_. Now you’ve made your bed, so I suggest you lie in it.” She started up walking again. “Good _day,_ Markus.”

He remained rooted to the floor, flabbergasted. “You’ll regret this, Mercedes.”

“You know,” Mercedes said airily, “I don’t think I will.”

-)

As the month wore on, the student body grew more antsy. There were panicking boys in alcoves, debating with their friends about asking dates, and there were panicking girls in other alcoves, debating what to wear with theirs. Even his most dedicated students were losing focus, and Felix wondered if making them run laps was even a deterrent, anymore.

“Goddess, I don’t miss being seventeen,” he said to Annette one evening as they waited in the dinner line.

She laughed, and his chest tightened at the sound. “Right? I’m not sure how I managed; it seems exhausting, now.”

“Mama.” Alessia tugged at Annette’s arm, bringing their attention downward. “Can I go stand with Charlotte?”

“Sure, little wolf.” Annette affectionately mussed Alessia’s hair. “We’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, mama!” she chirped, already running a few paces behind them in line to where Charlotte and her mother stood.

“So,” Felix said once Alessia was safely out of earshot, “does the Emperor come every year?”

“She’s supposed to,” Annette said, mindful of where they were. “I hear her health isn’t the best, so she’s not always able to make it.”

Felix’s eyebrows raised. “That’s news to me.”

“I think they try to keep it hushed,” Annette said. “But it’s hard to hush what you’ve seen with your own two eyes.” She winced. “Sorry, that was--”

Felix burst into laughter, startling a few nearby students who had perhaps never heard it, before.

“Professor Fraldarius,” said Ellie from a few paces ahead in line, “are you _okay?”_

“That wasn’t meant to be _funny!”_ Annette said, punching him in the shoulder as Felix continued to laugh. “I was _trying_ to _apologize,_ you ass!”

“Do you think it _bothers_ me when people point out I have one fucking eye?” Felix managed between spurts of laughter. “ _Goddess_ , Annette, come on, now. I’ve been like this for years.”

Ellie gave a startled “eep!” at the same time Annette gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, you’re _impossible,_ Felix, really!”

-)

That night, Felix, Annette, and Mercedes all dreamt of the Fall of Fhirdiad. None of them mentioned it--or the deep shadows under the others' eyes--at breakfast the following morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I posed this a while ago, oops


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! the reason why I discovered the last one wasn't posted when I thought it was!

All of Garreg Mach was in a frenzy preparing for the Emperor’s arrival. Classes had been called off to redistribute the students to other tasks, like mopping the great hall and dusting places no one was certain existed previously. The teachers grew tense as the date of her arrival grew closer—and none so much as Hubert. There were dinners to plan, security details to vet, rooms to set aside, and all manner of pop-up problems to address, and so when someone knocked on his door one afternoon, he thought nothing of bidding them entrance. 

Until he heard, “Hubie, dear! How _have_ you been?”

His head snapped up, and found its mark on an elegant, brown-haired woman dressed in a daringly fitted maroon gown. 

He blinked—once, twice, thrice—and she remained, and so Hubert was forced to come to terms with the fact that she was, in fact, actually standing here.

“Hello, Dorothea,” he said, genuine warmth leaking into his voice.

“Oh, stiff as ever, I see.” The sparkle in her green eyes told him she was teasing. “Did you even miss me?”

“My dear lady,” Hubert said, removing his reading glasses and setting them in his catch-all dish, “the past several years have been absolute _agony_ without your enlightened company.”

Dorothea laughed—a high, tinkling sound. “Go back to the stiffness, dear. Flattery never suited you.”

“As my lady commands.”

Dorothea laughed again, and threw herself into one of the chairs in front of his desk. “In any event, I came as soon as I got your letter, Hubert.”

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. “My letter regarding?”

Dorothea shot him a dramatically exasperated look. “Why, the new reason magic teacher, of course. You’re still in need of one, aren’t you?”

Hubert very firmly folded his hands together and set them on his desk. “We were informed that Her Imperial Majesty had appointed Markus von Engel some time ago.”

This time it was Dorothea’s turn to blink in hastily-concealed shock. “How can that possibly be? I only received your letter three weeks ago.”

His soldiers’ sense began buzzing, alongside the hair on his neck. “I sent that back in the Verdant Rain Moon.”

Dorothea’s brow furrowed sharply. “And Markus appeared in my place, hmm?”

“Indeed.”

They exchanged the same, calculated look.

Hubert’s mind whirled as he struggled to piece things together with too many missing parts. “We also find ourselves in need of a white magic teacher,” he added, brow furrowed deeply.

“I was never as good with faith magic,” Dorothea said, “but since I’ve already arranged to retire from the stage, I’ll take a shot if you’ll have me.”

Hubert found himself at a momentary loss. 

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize,” Dorothea added as their silence stretched further. “I know that’s what you’re struggling to say. The Capital just… sort of _gets_ like this, and it was nigh time I step aside for the next _prima donna,_ anyway.”

Hubert couldn’t help it. “Going out on a high note?”

Dorothea’s smile was sharp. “My last performance was as our dear Edie, you know.”

“I was there for opening night; I recall.”

All of the former Black Eagle Strike force had been—even Bernadetta, whose husband never let her out of their house, these days. Despite her penchant for introversion, Hubert couldn’t help but wonder if the Bear of Varley actually preferred her solitude, or it was simply easier. The handful of times he’d met her husband, he had not been impressed or set at ease.

Dorothea’s smile was still radiant; the years had not stripped her of that. “I might take back the flattery comment.” Her smile fell a bit into something less practiced when she added, “And how _have_ you been, Hubert? I notice you’ve avoided the question quite deftly.”

“It is a gift.”

Dorothea folded her arms and waited, expectantly.

Hubert sighed. Adrestian women were so _stubborn_ (or perhaps, he conceded, it might just be the ones he knew.) “You will be here all afternoon.”

Dorothea shrugged. “I have time.”

Hubert tried to smile, but he knew it didn’t come out properly. “Ah, but I don’t, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, yes, I was told in town that I arrived a few days ahead of the Emperor, and I should could myself lucky to be at Garreg Mach to see her.” Dorothea paused, and then went to shut the door. 

Hubert found himself forever grateful for her discretion.

Dorothea turned back to him with her face set in something that bordered dangerously on pity. “I’m sure it isn’t easy for you.”

“Happens every year.”

She was at his desk now, sliding behind it to stand beside him. “So does the anniversary of the end of the war, but that doesn't get any easier, either.”

He was boxed in; there would be no avoiding her. “I appreciate your concern, Dorothea, but I’m fine.”

“I’m _fine?”_ she lamented. “That’s only a step above ‘don't worry about it!’”

“Don’t,” Hubert reminded her.

Dorothea studied him for so long a moment, he felt his ears go red. “You know you can tell me if it hurts,” she finally said, quietly. “I won’t go turning you in somewhere, and I promise to tease you as little as possible.”

“There’s nowhere to ‘turn me in,’” Hubert said, “She already knows.”

Dorothea looked a little too stunned at that for his liking, but she always recovered damnably quickly. “When?”

“During the war.” It had been a lovely evening, one of their last on the march to Fhirdiad. There had been fireflies, winking into the twilight, and a lot of wine.

He had been so stupid. 

“And…?”

Hubert fists clenched, and he had to fight the swell of dark magic rising in his chest—although it might have been bile. “She _thanked_ me. And then immediately apologized.”

“There was something else.” Dorothea was trying to guess, but the inflection never quite got there.

“Wouldn't you know it.” Funny, Hubert did the same.

The horror of everything that came after the war slowly dawned on Dorothea. “And she still asked you to plan their wedding? And put your quarters beside theirs? And then… the rumors about _kids?_ And…?”

“I was still Minister of the Imperial Household,” Hubert interrupted, “Regardless of my own personal feelings.”

“Oh, Hubie…” She enveloped him in an awkward, sideways hug, even as he remained seated. Despite the chill in Garreg Mach this time of year, she was warm, and seemed very much like the Dorothea he remembered from the academy.

With a put-upon sigh, Hubert reached to squeeze back, only to startle when he realized he’d laid his hand upon bare skin. It fluttered about, discomforted, when there was also skin directly above and below it.

Dorothea gave that same, tinkling laugh. “It’s okay, Hubert. You’re allowed to hug me back.”

“Get yourself a decent cloak, would you?” he grumbled, though he did.

“I brought my winter wardrobe; don’t you worry.”

They held onto each other for a long, tired moment.

Then Dorothea said, “I’m sorry, Hubert, I really don’t intend to pry, but I simply _have_ to understand—she _knew_ you were in love with her and still asked you to father their children?”

Hubert winced, and abruptly let go. Dorothea did not. “The question was… put forward. I told them if they could determine a method besides the old fashioned one, I would consider it.”

A hush fell across his office. 

Dorothea squeezed him even more tightly. “And?” 

“Inquiries were made. Nothing useful came of them, and so the matter was dropped.” He was no longer looking at her. “I believe their ward is, what, eight now?”

“ _Ward_ ,” Dorothea said with a bitter laugh. “I’m going to have to remember that one.

As if all of Enbarr didn’t recognize a hostage for what it was. 

“I’m sorry, Hubert,” Dorothea said after a moment. 

“For what? I did this to myself.”

Whatever Dorothea’s answer was going to have been was cut off by a firm knock on the door. 

She let go of him as Hubert called, “It is open!” and donned his reading glasses once again. 

As though he were still stoic and untouchable.

“Hubert,” Felix began as he let himself into the office, “you’d wanted a report on the… oh.” He pulled up short when he spotted Dorothea. 

“Felix Fraldarius?” She asked, not even waiting for confirmation before launching herself at him.

Felix stiffened like a cat caught by the village toddler. “Dorothea?”

There was an odd tightness in Hubert‘s chest as he watched Dorothea squeeze the breath out of their resident swordsmaster and then plant her hands firmly on either side of his face. “Oh, it _is_ you!” she announced. 

“Yes,” Hubert said, amused despite himself, “that is swordsmaster Fraldarius.”

Dorothea had glanced to Hubert as he spoke, but was back studying Felix just as quickly. “You _teach_ here?”

“Yeah,” Felix said, prying her hands off of his face. “Been here the whole semester. But what are you doing here? I thought you were busy being first soprano or whatever?”

Dorothea allowed her hands to be returned to her. “Do I need a reason to visit my old friends?”

Felix made a face. “I suppose not.”

Although Hubert appreciated her discretion, this wasn’t the moment for it. “Dorothea is to be our new white magic teacher,” he said. “Would you mind getting Professor von Martritz to test her? I’ll be down presently.”

Hubert had to hand it to Faerghus: if there was one thing she’d taught her sons, it’s was the stone face. Felix’s didn’t so much as twitch at the news. 

“Sure,” he said. “Dorothea, if you would?”

She linked her arm though his, like this was some gala and he was still a duke. “Oh, you shall _have_ to catch me up on what’s been going on with you. It’s been _ages_ since I saw you and Leonie in New Enbarr.”

Their voices, one rough and northern, one clipped and cultured, drifted away, and Hubert allowed himself one small moment to breathe before everything came crashing back down. 

-)

When the day itself arrived, no one was quite prepared.

“Chins up, kids,” Felix muttered to his homeroom as they stood in the great entrance hall, fidgeting in their formal uniforms. “Your empress approaches.”

A few more of the Violet Owls straightened up, which he considered to be good enough.

“Have you ever seen the Empress, professor?” Ellie asked him quietly.

Felix sighed. “Unfortunately.”

She’d been there at the fall of Fhirdiad, her white hair gleaming in the cold sunlight and her golden relic axe blazing. He wondered, somewhat viciously, if _she_ still had her relic weapon, or if she’d actually put her money where her mouth was and locked it away with his Aegis, Annette’s Crusher, Ingrid’s Lúin, and all the rest. 

Except, apparently, the Lance of Ruin. The thought never failed to boil his blood. 

He was, however, spared further questions by the blaring herald’s horn. 

“Presenting Her Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg!”

Edelgard has always been small, coming up to most people’s sternums if that, but it was her presence that dwarfed others. She filled a room expertly, expectantly, as if there was no other way for things to possibly be. 

Watching her walk into Garreg Mach on that cold morning was no exception. 

But time seemed to have worn her through. She limped along, straight-backed, with a thin, elegant cane, her blood red cloak sweeping out behind her. She had traded the horned war crown for something less aggressive but no less imposing, an intricate golden circlet with inlaid rubies. 

Her gaze swept across the assembled mass, taking stock of the academy. She halted, for just a moment, when she met Felix’s eyes. Her facial expression did not change, but her posture tensed, her footsteps halted. 

He stared her down like a wild boar. 

“Presenting,” called the herald once again, “Her Highness, the Empress-Consort, Byleth Eisner von Hresvelg!”

Time had been even less kind to the professor than it had been to Edelgard. Her hair, once the brightest green, had faded to something darker, greyer, much more like what she’d arrived at the academy with. There were rumors, of course, that she had lost her Crest upon the death of the archbishop. Felix could only believe that something that drastic could cause such a vibrant woman to grow so frail. 

She limped along on a sturdy cane, and a stone-faced bodyguard had to assist her up the steps. She, too, tried to study the crowd, but her labored breathing belied her struggle, and she quickly stopped. 

Felix caught Annette’s eye, across the room, and the mage’s eyebrows raised, as if to say, _I told you._

“And presenting,” the herald called, “Her Highness, the Crown Princess Finnja von Hresvelg!”

Felix had only ever heard toasts to the honor of Edelgard and Byleth’s adoptive daughter, and the occasional hushed laments her “situation” that no one dared to elaborate on. She seemed a robust girl, more so than either of her parents, and looked around Alessia’s age. Felix’s eyes narrowed as he studied her small features, light blue hair, and stocky frame—had he seen those, somewhere before?

The princess joined her mothers at the end of the entrance hall, where Hubert and Ferdinand waited. Both men offered a deep bow to the royal family. 

“Headmaster von Vestra,” Edelgard greeted warmly, “it has been far too long.”

“And far longer for us, Your Majesty,” Hubert replied, unable to keep warmth from his own voice, despite everything.

Edelgard’s smile then was the first genuine thing about her, near as Felix could tell. But she wiped it away as she turned to face the crowd of students and teachers assembled in the entrance hall.

“You honor yourselves, your families, and this institution with your upstanding presences.” The Emperor's voice echoed into the rafters. “I have heard many great things about the classes this year that I hope to witness for myself.”

Her smile was meant to have been reassuring, Felix figured, but all it filled him with was deep sense of dread. 

-)

“How in the Eternal Flames did you manage to recruit the Shield of Faerghus?” Edelgard asked the moment she and Hubert were safely tucked away in his office.

Hubert couldn’t resist. “I believe that was his father, actually.”

Edelgard shot him an exasperated look tinged with fondness. “The question stands.”

“Believe it or not,” Hubert said as he fussed with the tea kettle, “he just showed up one day. Was quite surprised to find me running the place.”

She laughed. “Did he expect to find Seteth?” 

“Frankly, I don’t think he got that far,” Hubert said. “But he’s proven an adept teacher despite a few…” He paused, trying to come up with a diplomatic word. “…quirks.”

Edelgard’s thin eyebrows raised as Hubert set a fine porcelain teacup in front of her. “Truly, I must know—how did he manage to avoid us until the Enbarr Accords were signed?”

“I’m told he dyed his hair and joined a mercenary company.” For once, Hubert sat on the couch across the room from his desk, rather than behind it. Edelgard was a special case for all sorts of things.

“Bah.” Edelgard reached for the sugar bowl on the coffee table, and lumped an amount of sugar into her tea that Hubert had always found disgusting. “I would ask how we didn’t know that, but those were a gold a dozen, immediately after the war.”

“Precisely,” Hubert said. “Though I did try.”

“I know you did.” Edelgard smiled at him—her actual smile, not the one she’d practiced for court—and Hubert found he had to look away. “You always do.”

Hubert was forced to contemplate his tea, lest he make a fool of himself yet again. “I suppose it worked out in the end.”

“Quite so,” Edelgard agreed. “Now, how are those things I asked you about coming along?”

“I investigated the compound in the northwest, but found it empty when we arrived.” He would shock his younger self with how easily he could lie to her, now. “A quick scouring found few things of interest.”

“Bah,” said Edelgard again. “Have you sworn Shamir to silence?”

“Naturally,” Hubert lied.

She nodded again, seemingly now lost in thought. “You know, you two caught on like a house on fire.”

Hubert shrugged. “We are cut from the same cloth, she and I.”

“Is that so?” Edelgard’s smile curled deviously across her round face. 

Hubert leveled her in as sharp a look as he dared. “If you attempt to set me up with her, I will tell Byleth every embarrassing story I know about you from when you were a child.”

“I yield! I yield.” Edelgard laughed and made a conciliatory gesture. “But really, Hubert, have you not thought about settling down?”

He schooled his features into something that passed for neutral. “I can assure you, the students keep me quite busy.”

She gave him a look that made his insides twist, even all these years later. The one that said, _dammit, I care about you._ “That isn’t what I meant,” she said, softly. “And you know it.”

It had been this way ever since the end of the war, ever since he’d blurted out the confession he wished daily he could have taken back. She’d likely have done it even if she hadn’t known, once she’d settled down herself, but being set up was so much worse coming from the woman who knew he loved her.

“If there were someone,” Hubert said after a painfully long moment, “I would’ve let you know.”

“There are still plenty of eligible women in Enbarr who would love an introduction,” Edelgard offered.

“Noted,” said Hubert.

Edelgard gave a heavy sigh. “At least promise me you’ll dance at the ball.”

“You know I always save one for you, for Byleth, and for Finnja.” Hubert tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Besides, with Dorothea here now, I’m certain I’ll be dragged onto the floor sooner or later.”

“Dorothea?” Edelgard sounded genuinely surprised.

Hubert forced himself to look at her, to gauge her reaction to what came next: “Yes, she will be our new white magic teacher. I would have written to you, but it’s such a new development I figured I may as well tell you in person.”

A lifetime of reading her tells was the only reason Hubert noticed the discomfort in her voice, the subtle twitch of her jaw. “Following in Manuela’s footsteps, I see.”

“She felt it time to retire from the stage,” he said, deceptively lightly. He could hardly goad the Emperor, especially now, but there was something she wasn't telling him, and he intended to find out what.

“A great pity for the opera company.” She took a sip of her tea, and then her expression relaxed. “I’m glad we all were able to make it out for her final opening night, then. Even if that play was… _so_ embarrassing.”

_Damn it all!_ Hubert was out of practice. “I thought they did a wonderful job of portraying your life and the war.”

“Aided by Dorothea, I’m sure.” Edelgard was blushing something fierce.

“The romance was quite tastefully done,” he offered.

Edelgard groaned and buried her face in her hands, and for a moment, they could have been teenagers again, with him teasing her in the academy.

And like an old war wound, his heart ached something fierce.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix, Hubert, and Annette have a hell of a time at the winter ball.

The rest of the week’s classes passed by in relative peace. The Blood Eagle didn’t barge into his or Annette’s classes, and that suited Felix just fine. Byleth stopped by his practicum one afternoon, but she simply observed from the back and quietly commended Felix on both his technique and his teaching ability.

He’d flinched at her approach.

When the day of winter ball dawned bright and cold with not a cloud in the sky, Felix was pretty sure it was an ill omen.

“Is that a Faerghus thing?” Ignatz asked. “Also, hang on, I’ve almost got it.”

It was only because of Ignatz that Felix had even had the time to have formalwear made for the damn ball, so he tried not to be too annoyed at the smaller man. The painter was having a hell of time trying to drape all of his various formal sashes and cloaks properly, and had Felix possessed any understanding of Alliance formalwear, he’d have offered to help about twenty minutes ago. 

He had never been more grateful for the heavy furs and sedate robes of his homeland. Even if it didn’t technically exist anymore, her bitter northern winters didn’t care about who sat on the Coldiron throne, and he hoped Cornelia was having a hell of a time.

“It might be,” Felix said, addressing the question. “Did the Alliance not believe in omens?”

“Not exactly,” Ignatz said, “but also not exactly not?”

Felix snorted. “Clear as mud.”

“It depends on who you ask,” Ignatz elaborated. “Claude believed in all sorts of things the rest of us didn’t follow.”

Felix knew better than to ask what had become of the former Alliance’s leader.

After a few more moments of fiddling, Ignatz suddenly transformed from a man draped in too much fabric to an elegantly-dressed chaperone. Felix was honestly impressed with his tailor.

They headed out of Ignatz’s room and down the hall of the professors’ quarters, greeting colleagues and shooing students as they went. Everyone was dressed in their various finery, and Felix couldn’t resist teasing Shamir when they found her emerging form her room.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before,” Felix said to his old mentor.

“Laugh it up, Fraldarius,” she warned. “I only need one arrow to take out your other eye.”

Ignatz gasped, but Felix cackled, low and deep in his throat.

“And thanks for volunteering,” Shamir said, slipping her arm through Felix’s.

“I didn’t?”

Shamir shot him a deadly look, and that was how the three of them made their way into the reception hall. Ignatz gave their names to the herald, and Felix felt a pang in his chest when he heard himself simply introduced as Professor Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He had never cared much for the pomp and circumstance of nobility and its responsibilities, but even after all these years, not having Lord or Duke before his name made it feel so achingly empty.

Shamir disappeared to get them drinks, and that was around when the students began arriving. 

Some were dressed in their formal uniforms, the starched black and resplendent gold winking beneath the chandeliers. Others wore something more to their personal taste—girls in fancy dresses and capelets, and boys in formal robes and heavy cloaks. Felix supposed a lot of it was simply what was fashionable these days, but in his personal opinion, a fair chunk of the clothes just looked stupid.

Of course, maybe he was just biased against Adrestian fashion. Wouldn't be the first thing he’d judged harshly after the war.

He nodded to his students as they arrived, their full names and modern titles on display like bejeweled butterflies under pressed glass. Some stopped to chat with him and Shamir before taking their seats for the formal dinner, and he had the misfortune to be talking with Faustine and Eberhard when Annette’s name was announced.

The lack of title alongside her name, too, struck a painful chord in his chest. She was just Professor Annette Fantine Dominic, now, her daughter simply Alessia Morgan. But the former Baroness-to-be was stunning in a silvery dress not unlike the one Felix remembered from when they were students. It was cut away from her shoulders in a smooth, sweeping line, and her elegant skirt pooled at her feet as she moved.

Felix just about choked on his drink, and Faustine concernedly patted him on the back a few times. “Are you alright, professor?”

“Fine,” Felix managed, still coughing. Shamir gave him a look he did not appreciate, but also made him feel vaguely homesick.

Annette spotted them and Felix could practically watch the relief spread across her face. “Hi, all!” she called, hurrying over. “Thank the Goddess I beat the royal family, here.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a thing?”

Faustine and Eberhard looked alarmed, and Shamir only laughed, but Annette took pity on him. “Yes, you’re not supposed to arrive after the royal family. It’s considered terribly gauche.”

“Huh.” Felix took another sip of wine, and filed that one away for future intentional shenanigans. 

He suddenly missed Sylvain and Ingrid something fierce.

The herald then announced Headmaster Hubert von Vestra and Deputy Headmaster Ferdinand von Aegir, and everyone seemed to take that as their cue to sit down. Felix found his place card at a table with Annette, Shamir, and Ignatz, and he wondered who had arranged the seating chart. Was he just spectacularly lucky, or was someone looking out for him?

“You behave now, okay Alessia?” Annette was telling her daughter. “Remember your manners and be nice to the princess.”

“I will, mama!” the child promised before disappearing in a cloud of tulle and fiery red hair.

Felix cocked an eyebrow, and Annette said, “Ferdinand thought it might be a good idea for the princess to be seated at a children’s table, and asked if he could seat Alessia there, as well, since they're about the same age.”

“That’s… oddly thoughtful,” Felix said. _So it was Ferdinand arranging the seating chart?_ Did the man not have anything better to do?

Annette made a face, and Felix found himself mesmerized by the way her makeup moved with it. “Right? I couldn’t believe we’d never thought of it before.”

Felix found himself absentmindedly pulling Annette’s chair out for her, and missed her blush when he pushed it back in before taking his own.

“Ah, so there _are_ still some manners, under all that fur,” Shamir teased.

“What? Where?” Felix made a show of patting himself down, as if checking for a loose dagger or missing coinpurse.

Both Shamir and Annette cackled, and that was about that time that Ignatz reappeared from the knot of students he’d been talking to, looking deeply confused like only those who walk into a conversation late could.

-)

“Announcing, Headmaster Hubert von Vestra!”

Hubert would never get used to hearing his name so naked, without Marquis, without Lord, without Left Hand to Her Imperial Majesty, no matter how far into Edelgard’s new regime they went. He knew Ferdinand felt similar, from the one time they’d ever gotten drunk just together. 

It had been a few years after the end of the Gautier Rebellion, their first at Garreg Mach and away from the bustling capital city. Dorothea had not been wrong the other day when she’d said the anniversary of the end of the war happened every year but grew no easier. Hubert and Ferdinand typically got very drunk with whomever happened to be in Enbarr at the time—some years Caspar, some years Dorothea or Linhardt, and one particularly memorable year, they’d been in Brigid with Petra—but never with Edelgard herself. She was never meant to know, and it was largely due to Hubert that she didn’t.

And so when Ferdinand had shown up at Hubert’s door with a bottle of whisky, Hubert didn’t need to ask questions. They drank until they forgot all the horrible things they’d seen at the fall of Fhirdiad, the horrible things they’d done, and Ferdinand had crashed on the couch and left before dawn the next morning.

It was the closest they’d ever come to truly being friends.

Hubert felt his shoulders draw back and his spine straighten as he strode through the hall, felt the eyes bore into him as he moved. He would never grow used to this, either, since back when he’d had a title, Edelgard had been the one all the eyes were drawn to. He’d loomed in her shadow and it had suited him just fine.

“Presenting, Deputy Headmaster, Ferdinand von Aegir!”

Ferdinand, though, basked in the attention the way lizards sunned themselves on the monastery parapets in the summertime. He soaked it in, drew the attention from Hubert in a natural, comfortable way.

It was why he always went second.

All around him, Hubert noted tables filling, students shuffling, chaperones settling in. From his spot at the head table, Ferdinand gave the same speech he gave every year, about how he was grateful for everyone’s resplendent presence and if they would please rise from the Royal Family.

Edelgard was a vision in Adrestian Crimson, and even after so many years, so many galas, so many dresses, it never failed to hit Hubert directly in the gut. But half of her radiance was in the smile reserved for her wife, whom even Hubert would admit was equally as much a vision in gold. Together with Finnja, in her little royal’s crown, they entered the hall and were seated at the high table alongside Hubert and Ferdinand, or the children’s table nearby.

It always felt like the longest dinner of Hubert’s life, even if Edelgard did her best to engage the entire table and not squeeze Byleth’s hand or knee too many times when he could see it.

It was a relief when the tables were cleared away and the dancing began. For one, it meant Hubert was off the hook as a figurehead for the rest of the evening, and remained in the hall largely as a deterrent to students feeling publicly amorous. For two, it meant he was no longer trapped at a table with Edelgard and Byleth, and the vice in his chest would release.

They always stopped serving wine after dinner, for which Hubert always lamented the necessity. He watched as the students paired up (and didn’t), as Edelgard danced with Ferdinand, with her daughter, with various students and professors, with Byleth. He noted Mercedes teaching some of her students a lively two-step that had been fashionable when he himself was at the Officers’ Academy, and Ignatz waxing poetic about some landmark or other to a few of his. Annette danced with every single one of her students, and even a few who weren’t, and Alessia tugged at Felix’s sleeve until he made an overelaborate bow and brought the little girl to the dance floor. Her face lit up with joy.

Hubert loosed a deep sigh, and took a long sip of lemonade. Despite how he’d gotten here, he _did_ love his job, and the students of Garreg Mach. It felt like a gentler version of the strategizing and planning he’d done for the Crown his whole life. He supposed that this was likely how Seteth had felt, leading up to the war.

The irony was not lost on Hubert.

“Hey, stranger.” Dorothea appeared at his elbow in an elegant crimson gown, her curly hair gracefully piled atop her head. “Were you planning to stand back here all night?”

Hubert took another sip, and tried not to make a face. This lemonade was too sweet by half. “That is what I typically do, yes.”

“Oh, _Hubie.”_ Dorothea tsked. “That’s no way to spend a ball.”

“We shall have to agree to disagree.” He turned to set his drink down.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Dorothea tugged at his arm. “Come dance with me.”

One look at her face told Hubert he wasn’t getting out of this one, and so with a heavy, put-upon sigh that was only mildly exaggerated, he gave a small bow and escorted the Black Eagles’ Gremory out to the dance floor.

They took up position for a waltz, their hands intertwining, his hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder. When the music began, they fell into a graceful rhythm, Hubert guiding with the sort of ease that only came with practice.

For a moment, they simply moved in time with the music as it swelled and shifted. Heartbeat to heartbeat like this, Hubert could almost remember what it felt like to be close to another person, could almost remember what it felt like to be warm.

“You know,” Dorothea remarked, “you were always my favorite dance partner, in school.”

“Me?” Hubert’s brows came down hard over his nose. “Surely you mean Ferdinand.”

Dorothea cocked an eyebrow at him, and flicked a glance over Hubert’s shoulder. He turned them in time with the music, and found that Ferdinand was currently leading poor Faustine von Engel quite flamboyantly through the current waltz.

“He’s a bit... melodramatic,” Dorothea said after a moment. “But you, on the other hand, have all of the same good breeding with none of the…” She let go of his shoulder, briefly, to gesture towards Ferdinand. “...well, that.”

Hubert laughed, quietly, in his throat. “Well, I had to be a good dance partner to the future Emperor, you know. It would hardly do to step on her toes.”

Dorothea laughed merrily, and Hubert wondered if she knew something about where to find wine that he didn’t. “I’m just picturing you back in the Academy, all dour-faced and hair in your eyes, just… _dropping_ Edie at the winter ball.” 

Despite himself, Hubert also laughed, and louder this time. Dorothea just made it so easy. “She would never have forgiven me.”

“Nor would Lorenz or Ferdinand.” Dorothea’s smile fell, and when she spoke again, her voice dropped even further. “Hubert, turn us around again, would you?”

He waited a moment for the music to swell, and then did as asked. For a moment, he couldn’t be certain of why Dorothea had insisted, but then his glance alighted on a familiar head of bone-white hair beside a raven black one.

“Get us closer, would you?” Dorothea whispered. “I want to hear what she’s saying.”

Part of Hubert wanted to leave the Emperor to it. It was hardly their business which professors she danced with, after all. But something in Felix’s facial expression was abruptly offset, something in his shoulders too tight, even for dancing with the enemy monarch, and so Hubert did as requested, steering Dorothea and himself closer to the pair.

“...I dyed my hair and joined a mercenary company,” Felix was saying. “Seemed the most logical place to get lost.”

Edelgard made a humming noise, and for a long moment, fell so silent Hubert nearly steered them away again.

Then she said, “We did _so_ miss you at the Battle of Spirits’ Fen. Were you indisposed?”

Felix’s face twisted into something for which young Hubert would have chastised him, and adult Hubert couldn't blame him. “Could say the same for you.”

Hubert and Dorothea exchanged the same, wary look. Edelgard was the Emperor, sure, but even she had to know better than to poke the fury that slept in Felix Hugo Fraldarius.

“We did find Margrave Gautier, of course,” she added, deceptively lightly. “He destroyed a third of our mages’ unit before Hubert caught up to him.”

Dorothea’s eyes asked what she could not, at this range, and Hubert, very minutely, shook his head. He hadn’t been anywhere near Sylvain or that battle, or else the man never would have fallen into Twisted’s hands. The former Margrave deserved at least that much.

A vein in Felix’s jaw twitched. “Sylvain was a pain in the ass like that.” His good eye narrowed as he added, “Dimitri, too.”

Hubert could have screamed at him not to poke the sleeping rage in the Emperor, either. This was a very deadly game, he was playing.

Edelgard’s smile was razor-thin. “A pity he couldn’t join us, either.”

The waltz’s ending began to swell, and Hubert and Dorothea exchanged one last look before breaking apart as soon as was polite. 

“My dear lady Emperor,” Hubert said, rounding on Edelgard and Felix, “may I cut in?”

“Hubert! Of course.” Edelgard’s smile was not quite her own, not quite the courtly one from a moment ago. She nodded to Felix, who very pointedly did not return it.

Hubert took up position with Edelgard for the lively foxtrot that came next, noting out of the corner of his eye the Dorothea was doing the same with Felix.

“I was doing just fine, Hubert,” Edelgard said, annoyance creeping ever-so-delicately into her voice.

Hubert rolled the dice. “Whatever do you mean? I simply remembered I promised you a dance.”

Those violet eyes narrowed at him, and it was all Hubert could do stare back.

“I was testing him,” Edelgard said after a long moment, “if you must know.”

Hubert had figured--and also, been caught. “And what did you find?”

“I suggest you watch him,” Edelgard said, and remained pointedly silent through the rest of the dance.

-)

“Uncle Felix! Uncle Felix!” Alessia was tugging on his sleeve. “Will you dance with me?”

“Wouldn’t you rather dance with your Auntie Mercie?” Felix asked.

Alessia shook her head, and stamped her little foot, and Felix struggled not to laugh. “Alessia,” Annette interjected, “it isn’t nice to make people do things they don’t want to do.”

“Aww,” Alessia said, “but I want to dance.”

Her crestfallen little face was too much, even for his hardened, mercenary heart. Felix swept into a deep bow, as if addressing Dimitri’s once-future-wife, and said, “Alright you little wolf, come on.”

Alessia let out a happy squeal and immediately fitted herself onto the toes of his dress boots. At first, Felix merely kept up with the dance as intended, but Alessia insisted on being spun, and spun, and spun.

He was nearly dizzy when the little girl ran off again, and suddenly he found her mother in her place.

“Thank you, Felix.” Annette’s smile was so, _so_ warm. “I know you don’t care much for—ah!”

Felix wasn’t sure what possessed him to pull her into position with him for the waltz that was just striking up, but he suddenly found himself with his hand on her waist and other tangled up in hers.

“But you do,” he said.

Annette gave a startled little laugh and set her hand to his shoulder as the waltz properly began. 

It had been a long time since Felix had been at a party nice enough to bother with waltzing, multiple forks, and string quartets, but he had been pleased to find that his old knowledge came right back, if only for the teasing it spared him. He could lead his students through their dances without much fuss, despite how often he tried to play them off each other (rather than himself), and he could sit through a four-course dinner without wondering which fork was his.

But more importantly than any of that, he could dance with Annette.

She was small and warm in his arms, smelling sweetly of honey and lilac and fitting against him like she was made to be there. Felix desperately hoped she couldn't feel how hard his pulse pounded, because there was no amount of alcohol that would make him live that down. 

It was her, plain and simple, that set his insides at war. Her, and those bright blue eyes, and fiery red hair, and mesmerizingly bare shoulders, and elegant braids, and tiny waist that he could probably fit both hands around and have his fingers touch and… and....

He was struck over the head with how much he wanted to kiss her—more so than when he’d been drunk, more so than when he’d been younger. It felt like if he didn’t now, he would never have the chance, students be damned, empress be damned. Annette was looking up at him with such joy in her face that he felt like his insides were about to implode.

“Excuse me,” came a cool, commanding voice. “May I cut in?”

It was like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over both their heads, but Annette recovered faster. She always had. “Of course, Your Majesty.” She let go, and Felix had to tell himself to settle down before he did something stupid, like punch an emperor in the face and get himself hanged.

They took up position mid-waltz, her hand on his shoulder and his on her waist, and Felix was unsurprised to find Edelgard unsuited to follow, even in a dance. She fought him for the lead, even though the dance was as old as their parents.

“I had hoped to speak with you,” she said, coolly, neutrally.

Felix was not impressed. “Speak away.”

Edelgard cocked an eyebrow at him, as if prompting him to say something else more polite, but Felix was not forthcoming.

“Hubert tells me you simply showed up, one day,” she finally said. “Is that correct?”

“I needed a job,” Felix muttered, “and heard Garreg Mach needed a swordsmaster.” _It seemed a match made in some kind of hell,_ he’d told Hubert, that day.

It still seemed so—in some ways less, in some ways more—but it was the kind of hell they all currently inhabited together.

Edelgard’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was predatory, angry, and Felix half expected it to snap at any moment. “He and I both had the same question, however. How _did_ you manage to avoid us all these years?”

For a moment, his heart leapt to his throat. He had already told Hubert this, once, and the fact that Edelgard was now asking meant one of two things. Either she was checking his sources, or Hubert hadn’t told her anything.

He wasn’t sure which implications were worse.

How to give the truth without giving the whole truth? It was something Sylvain had mastered, but Felix never quite had. “I dyed my hair and joined a mercenary company,” Felix finally said, the delay just moments too long. “Seemed the most logical place to get lost.”

Edelgard made a humming noise and fell silent for a long moment. She was calculating something, Felix was reasonably certain, and his spine tensed, as if preparing for an attack.

Then she said, “We did _so_ miss you at the Battle of Spirits’ Fen. Were you indisposed?”

Fury blazed in his chest—bright, wild, _fierce._ She was testing him, goading him, _baiting_ him. For what purpose, and to what end? To prove all Faerghusi were as savage as the boar?

No matter. He could fight the Adrestian way: “Could say the same for you.”

Something flashed in those pale, violet eyes. “We did find Margrave Gautier, of course.” Her voice was offensively light as she dug the dagger between his ribs. “He destroyed a third of our mages’ unit before Hubert caught up to him.”

A vein in Felix’s jaw twitched. Had Hubert been there, that night? He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but they could usually spot Hubert’s spells, if not the man himself. There was only one source for the purple fire that had frequently rained across battlefields.

Then again, Spirits’ Fen had been such a catastrophe, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d missed something like Dark Spikes going off beside him.

“Sylvain was a pain in the ass like that.” Felix’s good eye narrowed as he braced for her reaction to: “Dimitri, too.”

Edelgard’s smile thinned, and for a moment, Felix couldn’t tell if there was respect in those violet eyes, or murderous intent. “A pity he couldn’t join us, either.”

The waltz’s ending began to swell, and Felix was tempted to drop the Blood Eagle on her ass, and see just how well her garish red dress held up against the cold tiled floor of the Garreg Mach reception hall.

“My dear lady Emperor,” came a smooth voice from just behind them, “may I cut in?”

Felix turned her over to Hubert's tender mercies like she'd burned him.

-)

“You’re looking radiant, Annette.”

Annette’s jaw set into hard lines. The last dance had just finished, and she was now trying to get an overtired Alessia home and to bed. She did _not_ need Markus and his bullshit right now. “Thanks, Markus.”

When she didn’t offer anything further, he pressed forward. “Might I assist you?”

“It’s really fine.” Annette shifted her grumpy daughter from one hip to the other. “I’ve got her.”

“I insist.”

“And _I_ insist you butt out!”

Even through the heavy throng of dismissing students, Felix could pick out Annette’s voice, anywhere. She seemed to snap it back to a level he could no longer hear, but the damage had been done.

What the fuck was Markus von Engel _doing_?

“Felix.” A firm hand bit into his shoulder. “Might I be correct in assuming you know where one might find a stiff drink without leaving the academy grounds?”

Felix glanced back to Hubert. He didn’t _seem_ like he was being anything but truthful, but _damn,_ if he wasn’t hard to read. Felix wondered, ambiently, if this were an elaborate set up to kill him after he’d bared fangs at the emperor.

Then again, there was something so desperate about the hand at his shoulder that Felix had to figure Hubert wasn’t exactly logical, right now.

“Possibly,” Felix offered carefully. “That depends on if you promise not to confiscate where I get it from.”

“Deal,” Hubert said immediately.

Felix patted Hubert’s gloved hand a few times, and he mercifully took the cue to let go. “Give me just… a minute to say goodbye to everyone.”

Hubert cracked a very thin smile. “I suddenly find myself looking anywhere but Markus von Engel.”

Oh, Felix was going to enjoy this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is brought to you by Eva on Fire and several new candles.
> 
> [come hang out on twitter for extra nonsense](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix reminds Markus of his place, and Hubert gets very, very drunk.

“And I _insist_ you butt out!”

Annette hadn’t meant to shout, but Markus appeared stunned, and the sudden, sharp noise startled Alessia and turned students’ heads.

“Mama?” she murmured. “Mama, why are you yelling?”

“Sorry, little one.” Annette didn’t take her eyes off Markus. “It’s time to go home.”

Alessia began to squirm, and Markus rushed to hold her up. “Easy, now,” he said with his most charming smile. “You don’t want to fall, do you?”

Alessia sullenly looked down. “No…” 

Fury blasted into Annette’s chest so hard, it knocked the wind out of her. How _dare_ he touch her daughter! How dare he pull on that gentleman’s mask!

“Come on, little one.” Annette pulled as far away from Markus as she dared, setting Alessia back on her feet. “Let’s get you home.”

Alessia was rubbing her eyes. “Where’s Uncle Felix?” 

Markus bristled, and shot Annette a sharp look he had no business giving her. As if who cared for her daughter was his business!

“Here, little wolf.” Felix seemed to appear out of nowhere, affectionately ruffling Alessia’s hair and looking Markus dead in the eye. “I’m right here.”

“Alessia seems quite attached to you,” Markus observed, a note of displeasure in his voice.

“That’s what happens when you stick around kids,” Felix told him as he half hoisted Alessia onto his back. She did the rest herself, locking her arms around his neck and her little legs as far as they could go around his middle. “They tend to take a shine to you.”

Annette released a tired sigh. “Thank you, Felix.”

“Sure,” he said. “After you, Lady Dominic.” He gave a very un-Felix-like wink after that, and warning bells began to sing in Annette’s mind.

What in the hell was he doing?

“Why thank you, Duke Fraldarius.” She winked right back. Two could play at this game.

“Don’t let the Emperor hear you say that,” Markus warned, a touch venomously.

“Surely she’s got more important things to do than worry about a few Kingdom expats.” Felix had begun walking, and Annette fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world

Markus was forced to hurry to catch up. “Oh, I think insurrection is _certainly_ important.”

Felix made a show of rolling his good eye, and it was then that it occurred to Annette that he was behaving like Sylvain. “Still seeing ghosts, I take it?”

Markus bit back in his molars. “I see a Duke as not so far removed from a dead king. “

“Seriously?” It was the most Felix-like he’d sounded in the entire conversation. “Are you concerned I’ll mount an army in my own name?” He snorted. “Little late for that, don’t you think?”

It occurred to Annette that, after Dimitri and his uncle had died, the next highest rank to which the crown of Faerghus would have gone would’ve been the Duke Fraldarius—which meant Felix, by that point in the war. 

With a jolt, she realized that, had the Gautier Rebellion had been successful, then sharp, handsome, frequently grumpy Felix Hugo Fraldarius would have been the rightful King of Faerghus. 

She wasn’t sure if she felt like crying, vomiting, laughing, or some combination therein.

“You were in the army, Uncle Felix?”

All three adults froze, having momentarily forgotten Alessia was on Felix’s back. He glanced to Annette, who looked vaguely panicked, and then said, “Yeah, I was. A long time ago.”

“Did you have a sword then, too?”

“I had two, actually.” This time, Felix _did_ look directly at Markus. “And my father’s shield.”

Markus’ eyes narrowed. “The rusted thing was hardly worth much, Alessia. You’d be far better off learning magic.”

Alessia pouted. “Mama doesn't want me to learn magic.”

“Not without enrolling you in classes!” Annette hastened to add. She wished Alessia were old enough to pick up on the Blue Lions’ patented ‘shut up!’ glare.

“Hey, Alesia,” Felix said as they exited the reception hall and headed towards the professors’ dorms, “do you want to tell Professor von Engel what you and Charlotte found behind the creek last week?”

At that point, Alessia launched into a very detailed story about the frog family she and Charlotte had found the other week, to the point that even Markus von Engel was forced to bid his goodbyes at his room or else continue to be subjected to it. 

Annette could have kissed Felix right then and there, with her daughter on his back and Markus in the vicinity and everything. 

“Thank you,” she opted for instead, when they reached her and Alessia’s room, “for dealing with… that.”

“Sure,” Felix said, assisting Alessia as she tried to clamber off his back.

“Go pick out your pajamas, Alessia,” Annette told her daughter, “I’ll be in in a minute.”

“Okay, mama.” Alessia gave a big yawn, and added, “Bye, Uncle Felix.”

“Goodnight, Little Wolf,” Felix said to her retreating back. “Don’t let the shadowman get you.”

Alessia gave a startled “eep!” and Annette had to stifle a laugh. “If she has nightmares tonight, I will never forgive you,” she warned Felix.

His smile pulled to the one side, spreading crookedly across his face. “It’s not my fault if she misbehaves. I _did_ warn her about the shadowman.”

He was leaning against the doorframe with an arm, now, and Annette was half in, half out of her room. He was close enough that Annette could see the flecks of amber in his good eye reflecting in the torchlight, could feel the warmth of his breath ghost across her face.

“Double lock your door,” Felix said, his voice low, “alright?”

“Always,” Annette murmured. “I ward it, too.”

“Good.” That same, smirking smile cracked across his face again. “Is it the one you developed towards the end of the war?”

Annette recalled the days she’d spent, heads bent with Mercedes and Sylvain, as they’d tried to come up with a ward spell that rain wouldn’t trip. One unfortunate afternoon they’d discovered that not only did it work, but also, Dedue was colorblind.

Annette smiled, largely because once they’d determined Dedue was fine, it had become one of the funniest stories of the war. “Of course.”

Felix chuckled, and it sent a bolt of honeyed warmth through Annette’s bones. “I’d love to see that blowhard blast himself halfway across the monastery.”

Annette laughed herself, not certain if she felt warm from the wine, the evening in a room full of people, or if she were simply blushing. “I was _so_ relieved Dedue was fine.”

“I remember.” Felix’s hand came up, almost absentmindedly, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She shivered at the roughness of his callouses, the tenderness in the motion. “You had Mercedes check him over twice.”

“Sylvain laughed the whole time,” Annette remembered. 

Felix’s laugh was little more than a delicious rumble in her ribs, now, and something in her fiercely ached. “‘Course he did, the bastard.”

Annette found herself uncharacteristically at a loss for words as Felix cocked his head to study her. She found herself wondering, absently, if the fur on his collar was as soft as it looked, if his dark hair was coarse or fine, if his sharp tongue could be put to better uses elsewhere.

It could have been wishful thinking, but she could have sworn he’d started to bow his head towards hers when they both heard a tiny pout from within her room: “Mama! It’s been way more than a minute...”

Although neither saw it, both Felix and Annette shut their eyes and internally cursed.

“I’m coming, Alessia,” Annette called back. “Hold on.” She sighed, and glanced back to Felix. “Duty calls.”

“Always.” He squeezed her hand and departed.

-)

Felix had experienced plenty of strange things in his lifetime—the knowledge of what the Aegis shield was actually made of, the time he’d walked in on Sylvain and Ingrid making out in the training field near the end of the war, any given mission with the Cost Effectives—but the weirdest thing by far was having Hubert von Vestra sitting in his desk chair like they were still students at the Academy sneaking booze under Seteth’s watchful eye.

“Thank you,” Hubert said as Felix handed him a tin mug full of three fingers of whiskey.

“Sure,” said Felix as he poured himself one, too.

“What shall we toast to?” Hubert asked.

Felix’s joints cracked as he settled himself onto the foot of his bed. “Dunno, figured you’d want to toast your Emperor or something.”

The face Hubert made was actually pained, and Felix sat back, stunned. “How about we just toast to this bizarre moment in time?” Hubert said.

Felix snorted. _“Prost.”_

The whiskey burned all the way down their throats, and silence fell.

“So, are you going to tell me why you needed a drink so bad you came to me,” Felix said after a long moment, “or are we just going to drink in the world’s most awkward silence?”

Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a heavy sigh. “Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.”

_That_ was unexpected.

Another painfully long moment passed.

“Would you consider us friends, Felix?” Hubert finally asked.

Felix took a moment to consider the question. “I might have, before I found out you’re the one who condemned Sylvain.”

“I wasn’t at the Battle of Spirits’ Fen.” Hubert spoke abruptly, harshly. _Angrily._ “Edelgard wouldn’t let me near the place. I learned only afterwards why.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow over the rim of his mug. “That crest beast they loosed have anything to do with it?”

Hubert nodded, slowly, from somewhere far away. “I warned them not to do it. There would be too many casualties, too much… death.”

_“You?”_ Felix barked a surprised laugh. “Avoiding _death?”_

“There’s war,” Hubert said, and the air of an old argument unfurled beneath his words, “and then there’s slaughter.”

And then there was allowing your best friend and leigelord to turn herself into a horrifying, demonic beast, but Hubert wasn't about to tell Felix that part.

“That’s… how Sylvain was, honestly.” Now it was Felix’s turn to disappear somewhere deep inside himself. “He tried to rein in Dimitri a lot more than the rest of us did, but there was no stopping the boar.”

“It is lamentable,” Hubert admitted, “what happened to your prince.”

Felix’s head snapped up. “It was because of _you people_ he went berserk.”

Hubert’s smile was sad, and he threw back the rest of the whiskey to steady himself. “It was because of Twisted, Felix.”

“Far as I’m concerned, they aren’t that different.”

Hubert was not drunk enough for this conversation. He held his mug out, hoping Felix would take the hint. “There are plenty of atrocities for which the Empire must answer, but the Tragedy of Duscur is not one of them.”

Felix stared at him so long, Hubert half expected the man to kick him out or stab him.

But then he merely splashed more whiskey into his mug, and Hubert realized why Felix had asked him not to confiscate where he got his alcohol from. His flask was embossed with the shield-like Fraldarius crest.

For some reason, Hubert’s chest hurt.

“Be still, my beating heart,” Felix deadpanned. “Don’t tell me you need a drink because you finally grew a conscience.” 

A weak laugh escaped Hubert. “I need a drink because dealing with Edelgard and Byleth _hurts.”_

Felix probably wouldn't have ordinarily appeared so stunned, but, Hubert supposed, he’d had several mugs of whiskey at this point. “It _hurts?”_ the swordsman repeated. “I didn’t even know you could _hurt.”_

“Ah, of course.” Hubert snapped to his feet, ice in his voice. “I am but an unfeeling Titanus with no thought in his head beyond how best to serve Lady Edelgard.”

A wary expression fell across Felix’s face. “I’m going to say this,” he said, “because I genuinely think you missed it. That was a joke.”

“Oh.” All of his fury seemed to pool at Hubert’s feet. “Of course.” He sat back down again, looking somewhat dazed. “My mistake.”

“No, no. I clearly struck a nerve.” Felix got carefully to his feet, held up a single, gloved finger, then went and, inexplicably, stuck his head out of his door. A moment passed, and he shouted, “Oi! Faustine! Eberhard! You’d better be sleeping in your own beds!”

Hubert couldn’t hear the students scramble, but he did hear Felix chuckle as he shut the door again. He began drawing a complicated rune across the back of it, and then it pulsed blue, the magic activating.

“How fascinating,” Hubert murmured, getting to his feet to study Felix’s handiwork. “Is that a silencing spell?”

Felix nodded. “How do you think we managed to sneak Dimitri up on your army? We stuck this to his cloak.”

“Brilliant,” Hubert murmured, squinting at the rune. It swam before him a bit, and Hubert lamented both his inebriation and lack of reading glasses.

“Annette’s handiwork.” Felix had moved to rummage about his closet. “She’s the brilliant one.” A moment later, his head reappeared, and he slapped a large, half-empty bottle of decent whiskey onto the desk. His grin was crooked, predatory. “Now start talking, Hubert.”

“Regarding?” Hubert asked, as they forwent the flask entirety and simply sloshed whiskey into their cups.

“That explosion from a moment ago. Go on. Let it loose; you’ll feel better.”

But Hubert had not cultivated a lifetime of silence to be put off so easily. He shook his head and sipped his whisky. “Another time, perhaps.”

“No, no,” Felix said again. “Yanking the arrow out hurts, but it needs done.”

Hubert winced. “That… is entirely too apt a metaphor.”

Felix made an expectant face over the rim of his mug. “We can trade, if you’d prefer.”

Hubert nearly sorted whiskey out of his nose. “Trade secrets? Are we children at a sleepover?”

Felix spread his arms to gesture at his sparse quarters. “I might have a spare blanket somewhere, if you’re really dying to sleep on my floor.”

Hubert laughed. “And put you out? Perish the thought.”

Although he laughed, Felix also leaned forward, balancing nearly on the edge of his bed. “Now, seriously—are we assassins, or aren’t we?”

Hubert had forgotten, until this very moment, that although he was known as the swordmaster of the Fearghus army, Felix Fraldarius had actually been trained as an assassin. And although Hubert himself was very much a mage, he had silently killed (or had killed) more than the Garreg Mach graveyard could even hold.

“We are.” Hubert sighed. “We very much are.” Partially due to his own curiosity, and partially due to his desire to stall, he added, “Who was your first mark?”

“One of your generals, over on the Eastern front. Can’t recall his name; big, bearded guy. You?”

“Ferdinand’s older brother, actually.”

Felix winced. “How’d that happen?”

Hubert contemplated the mug in his scarred hands. “Because we couldn’t get to the Prime Minster himself, but needed to send the message that the Insurrection of the Seven was unacceptable.”

Felix blinked a few times, and Hubert was starting to learn it meant he was startled. Or maybe it was just that they were drunk. “Wait a minute, how old were you?”

It was much harder to think back than it should have been. “Twelve, I think? Maybe thirteen?”

“How in the fuck did you manage to murder a man before you’d properly hit puberty?”

Hubert laughed, hollowly, and then mimicked a younger man’s voice: “‘Hey, Henry, might I attend your next fox hunt? My father would like for me to grow more comfortable with riding…’” Hubert dropped into his own cadence to add, “One blast of banshee is all it took. It was a miracle I survived, you see, when Henry von Aegir and his men didn’t.”

Felix stared at him for a moment in a mixture of horror and understanding. “You said ‘we.’ Did Edelgard tell you to do it?”

He decided to let it go, rather than correct Felix on proper address of the Imperial Emperor when she wasn’t even there. “That one, yes. Many others, no. I frequently act in her best interest, even when she does not agree.”

“And how well does she take that?”

Hubert made a face, and took a bracing gulp of whiskey. “Not well. Do you…?” he stopped suddenly, mid-sentence.

“Do I what?” Felix prodded. He wasn’t Ingrid, but he’d learned a thing or two about tenacity from her.

“Do you remember, back when we were all at the Academy, that week that rumors flew that Edelgard and I _must_ have been dating because now we weren’t talking?”

Now it was Felix’s turn to rack his brains. “Vaguely? I think Sylvain got dumped that week.”

“That was the other major rumor, yes. Something about getting an entire bottle of wine poured on him at a restaurant in town?”

Felix cackled. “Yeah, that happened. He had to borrow Dima’s uniforms for a week until Mercedes could help him get the wine stains out of his jacket.”

Hubert found himself laughing right alongside. “Truly incredible.”

“Ingrid was so mad that entire week, she made him wake up for class on his own.” Felix continued cackling, right into his mug. “But anyway, that week, yeah?”

“Oh, right.” Listening to Felix talk about the others he’d grown up with, it was easy to find himself wishing they were still here, and Hubert wasn’t exactly sure what to do with that. “Well, Edelgard refused to speak to me for a week because I took out a Demonic beast that was coming for her at the Red Canyon.”

“She was pissed at you for saving her life?”

“ _Thank you,”_ Hubert said. “Even Ferdinand agreed with me on that call. But Edelgard was just…”

She was a vision of fire and fury, shouting at him from within the confines of her room. She barely came up to his chest, even then, but her presence dwarfed him. _I can handle_ myself, _Hubert von Vestra! I have had it with your overbearing everything!_

She’d apologized later in the week, telling him she was truly, sincerely grateful for the great care he took of her and their plans, and that she was under a lot of pressure but that wasn’t an excuse. He’d thanked her, but the damage had already been done.

It was the first relief he’d had from his damn feelings in years.

“Hubert?” Felix brought him sharply back to focus with fingers snapped in his face. “You in there?”

“Unfortunately.”

Felix snorted, but the Faerghusi was focusing on him like a hunting dog having caught the scent of its prey. “You do this, you know. Disappear, when you’re the one who brings up Edelgard—not ‘Her Imperial Majesty,’ but Edelgard. Your friend.”

Silence fell across them for a long, heavy moment.

“Can you tell me about them?” Hubert asked, quietly. “Ingrid and Sylvain?”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “You knew them.”

Hubert gave a choked laugh. “Not like you did.”

Felix made a face, and then drained his whiskey mug. For a moment, he swayed unsteadily on his bed, but then burst to his feet. “Ingrid was a champion. Always first in, always last out. She kept Sylvain’s and my shit together when we couldn’t do it ourselves. She why I have…” Felix’s hand went scrabbling for where his coat normally rested, but his formal clothes had no such thing. “Shit. I forgot.” He glanced back up. “I have ‘I shall not stray’ tattooed on my back, for her.”

It bounced against something in Hubert’s mind. “That’s… from something, is it not?”

“Yeah, the Ballad of Kyphon. It was her and Glenn’s favorite.” He rolled his eyes. “Did you know, she’d been engaged to my brother since she was born? She was my sister. _Always_ my sister.” His voice fell away.

Hubert struggled with what he could possibly say, but luckily Felix just burst on:

“And Sylvain was an idiot. A brilliant, brilliant, idiot. If he could’ve stopped thinking with his dick for twenty minutes, he easily would have graduated top of our class, with honors.” Felix went to take a swig of whiskey, but found his mug accursedly empty. “He could read a room masterfully. Would have been an excellent advisor for Dimitri, if the boar would’ve…” Abruptly, Felix pulled up short.

Hubert supposed it wasn’t worth rehashing that if Dimitri had survived to become king, it would have meant Edelgard’s death—and likely Hubert’s too.

“Well, if the boar hadn’t lost his shit,” Felix said, much more quietly. “Or gotten it all back together, I don’t know.”

_That_ was not the route Hubert had expected.

His curiosity got the better of him. “Do you think he could have?”

Felix shrugged, and went to find the bottle. “Doesn’t much matter now.”

The weight of the last fifteen years was settling like a lodestone in his stomach, and for the first time since he’d come into Felix’s room, Hubert set his mug down. He loosed a heavy, bone-weary sigh, and placed his head in his hands. 

“It’s exhausting,” Hubert mumbled to his dress shoes, “isn’t it?”

“What, the war? The dead friends? The fact that closure is a lie?’

“That it doesn’t matter now.” Hubert’s hands tightened against his skull. “ _Any of it.”_

For a moment, Felix said nothing, and the only sounds in his room were the quiet swish of whiskey and the muted thunk of the bottle being set down.

Then, “I’m not getting on the floor to look at you, so you’ll just have to imagine you’ve seen my eyebrow raise.”

Hubert snorted—a disgusting, derisive sound. “Consider it done.” How did he even _begin_ to approach it? How did one delicately reach the point of something so painful?

Felix made a very annoyed noise that was only slightly hampered by his obvious inebriation. “Just come out and say it. I’m from Faerghus; it’s what we do.”

Hubert glanced back up to where Felix had been standing, and suddenly resented himself for moving so fast. It took a moment to realize the swordsman had moved, but he found his mark again, eventually, sitting on his bed.

“ _How?”_ It was just shy of a whisper. “How in the Eternal Flames do you do that?”

Felix rested his elbows on his knees to lean forward. In the professor’s dorms, that put the two of them in striking range. “People can’t hurt you with what you already know.”

It… made a certain amount of sense. In a brutal, obvious kind of way. “They can’t hurt you with what you already know…”

Edelgard already knew. And she did her best not to hold it against him, or make life worse for him, despite the impossibility. 

“I told Dorothea something like that, the other day,” Hubert said, quietly. “‘There’s nowhere to turn me in, she already knows.’”

For once, Felix was silent, and suddenly it all came tumbling out: “Edelgard already knows I’ve spent the last thirty or so years in love with her, and the last fifteen trying not to be. She knows I would father their children if she ordered me. She knows I would still die for her. She knows I still fight for her. She knows, she knows, she _knows_.” His hands fisted in his cloak. “And yet, I sit there every fucking year with her, and Byleth, and their daughter, and it just… _hurts.”_

A horrible silence came crashing down, then. Bile rose in his throat, and Hubert wasn’t certain if he wanted to break down, or warp somewhere else, anywhere else.

And then he felt a heavy fur pelt settle over him, and a calloused hand squeeze his shoulder. 

“That,” Felix said quietly, “is bullshit.”

Hubert burst into startled laughter, and it felt so _good_ just to have it out of him. He tugged at the pelt. “What is this for?”

“Northmen don’t hug.”

Hubert laughed again, his ribs protesting the unfamiliar movement. “I think you might be onto something, with the…” he made a useless gesture. “...just blurting it out, bit.”

“And you Adrestians love dancing around the point.” Felix took a healthy swig of whiskey as he headed back to his bed. “But, seriously. She _knows?”_

Hubert nodded miserably. “I told her, during the war. And she thanked me and told me there was someone else.”

“Yeah, that’s…” Felix’s breath left his lungs all in a whoosh. “That’s brutal. And you just… kept going?”

Hubert gave a helpless sort of shrug. “What else could I do?”

“Fuckin’ shit,” Felix muttered, taking a long swig of whiskey. “That why you left?”

“Hmm?”

“The whole Edelgard-Byleth thing,” Felix elaborated. “Is that why you left Enbarr?”

A terrible, wonderful thought began to bloom, deep in Hubert’s mind. His sober self would absolutely regret this in the morning, but in this moment, all he could think about was how if getting this awful secret off his chest felt this good, maybe he could stand to loose a few more. And Felix was about as safe a repository as there could possibly be—he already knew about Those Who Slither in the Dark, he already knew about the war, and hell, now he knew about his own personal issue with the Crown.

And more than anything else, there was no one else _to_ tell.

“No,” Hubert said. “I was prepared to stay through all of that.”

Felix’s sharp, surprisingly elegant eyebrows came down hard. “I beg your fucking pardon? Do you hate yourself?”

“Sure do, but no, that isn't why. I can _show you_ why.” He got to his feet somewhat shakily. “Follow me.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix learns what's in the cathedral

At some point after the ball, it had begun to snow, covering Garreg Mach in a thick, white blanket. Felix was painfully reminded of his homeland as he watched the heavy flakes fall softly across parapets and settle into arched doorways, and a hard pang of heartsickness crushed his chest in a vice so strong he could barely breathe. The snow muffled their footsteps and silenced their echoes, but Hubert still made the effort to drag his cloak through their tracks.

“You worry too much,” Felix told him.

“Shamir tells me it will be the death of me, yes.”

“It’s probably less obvious to just have me follow your exact footsteps.”

Hubert paused, as though that had only just occurred to him. “Right you are. Four _Saints_ , it’s nice having a professional around.”

It took an inordinate amount of effort to follow Hubert’s footsteps precisely, which was how Felix knew that he was incredibly drunk at this point, and also that this was probably a bad idea.

He blamed his intoxication when he was surprised that Hubert led them down the seldom-traveled cathedral bridge. 

The cathedral itself still rose majestically skyward, its peaks and parapets stretching towards the Goddess—or at least, the ones that were left, anyway. It had taken a beating during the first and second invasions of Garreg Mach (and Dimitri’s subsequent rages), but it still stood, unlike the Church of Seiros itself.

As they drew closer, unease coiled in Felix’s stomach. He had very few happy memories of the cathedral as a student, and even fewer after the war had begun. Mostly, it was just an ever-looming reminder that Dimitri was gone, Goddess rest his maddened soul.

“Make sure you don’t spot anyone, would you?” Hubert asked as they drew close to the locked cathedral gate. “The last thing I need is Markus von Engel.”

“I mean, agreed,” Felix said, already turning to face the bridge as if defending it from invaders once more. “But what are you planning to…?”

The rest of the question was silenced by the creaking of the massive iron gate behind him. It groaned as Hubert hauled it up, just far enough for two thin men to duck underneath.

“Step lively,” Hubert added, almost as an afterthought. “It’s a tad messy in here.”

The main cathedral door has been shattered outward, somehow, iron and stone littering the ground before it. Felix squinted at it, as though the memory of how that had happened would come to him. But no, it had been intact when Dimitri had last paced these halls.

Right?

Hubert picked his way through the rubble with practiced ease, and Felix did his best to again follow the same path. More than once, his boot caught on some unseen crag and nearly took the rest of him down with it. Felix was convinced it was a minor miracle that they made it to the side door intact. 

Hubert paused, his hand on the door. “Breathe softly, and no sudden moves.”

“Hubert,” Felix said, very lowly, “what are you keeping in here?”

Hubert’s jaw worked a few times, like he was testing to come up with what to say. He clearly found nothing, as he merely gave an apologetic smile, and then pushed open the massive door just enough to slip inside. 

Snow and moonlight drifted through the ruined ceiling, catching on the old statues and pews and turning the entire floor into an icy gauntlet. The pillars that Felix recalled ducking behind to avoid the boar’s wrath were intact, still stretching into nothingness where a peaked roof had once stood, and a few of the wrought iron candleholders still somehow remained. 

For a moment, Felix wondered what Hubert was even talking about—and then he saw it. 

“It was this.” Hubert’s voice was ragged, harsh, and it occurred to Felix that he’d never actually heard the man get _angry_ before. “ _This_ is why I left Enbarr.”

It blended into the shadows and was half covered in snow, but Felix _saw_ it. 

“Goddess above,” Felix whispered, his feet moving towards the distorted shape of their own volition, “is that a crest beast?”

Its great sides shuddered through labored breaths, and although snow had begun settling across its furry pelt, it did not mask the huge wounds slashed across its flanks. They looked to be ancient, but some clearly hadn’t healed properly, still red and virulent against its black hide.

Felix had never seen a creature in such pain.

“Yes,” Hubert said, quietly. “It is.”

“How did it get here?”

“I brought her with me.”

Felix physically recoiled. “You _what?”_

Hubert glanced to Felix, and in the frigid moonlight, he seemed hollow, somehow, lesser. “I suppose I never did tell you the story of how I left Enbarr, did I?”

Felix forced himself to turn back to the beast, brow furrowing. He had only ever seen them in battle, and to be up so close to one without a sword in hand was deeply unsettling. “Not as such.”

“A bit of history, then,” Hubert said, and then he sighed. “The Emperor has two crests. She was born with that of Seiros, but the second is the Crest of Flames. It is why she is so ill.”

“Like the professor,” Felix murmured, not taking his eyes off the beast.

“Precisely. And like Byleth, it was not granted to her by virtue of her birth—it was forced upon her.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “By whom?”

“Those Who Slither in the Dark.”

The winter wind cut across the ruined cathedral like so many icy knives, ruffling the crest beast’s fur and Hubert and Felix’s cloaks.

Felix did not shiver _. “How?”_

“We don't know,” Hubert said softly. “But they’re the only ones who can possibly remove It.”

“And that’s why she hasn’t cut them loose?”

Hubert’s nod was solemn, his eyes dark and hidden beneath his hair. “They’re the only ones who could possibly remove her second crest—or grant Byleth’s back.”

Felix’s core vibrated with seething, white-hot rage, but his voice was a mere murmur. “And she condones... _this?”_

“She calls it research.” Hubert’s voice was even softer, now. “I don’t.”

Felix crept towards the sleeping crest beast, bile rising in his throat. It slumbered fitfully, snorting softly and occasionally growling low in its throat. He wondered, distantly, if it dreamed.

“Who was this?” Felix asked, glancing back to Hubert. “Do you know?”

At this, the Emperor’s former left hand shut his eyes, until only Hubert von Vestra remained. “The only natural crest beast—Marianne von Edmund.”

Felix’s knees gave out, pitching him forward into the snow. It seeped into his dress robes, but he barely felt the biting cold. He stared at the unrecognizable face of the once queen-to-be, and felt the whiskey he’d drunk not so long ago threaten to burn right back up his throat. 

“I couldn’t bear knowing what was happening.” Hubert was suddenly beside the beast— _Marianne—_ as though compelled. “It is one thing to draw blood from a patient, and quite another to take it.” He gestured, helplessly, to the giant wounds in her side. “Those are incisions. Daily, _repeated_ , incisions.”

“ _Why?”_ Felix hissed, jerking his gaze away from Marianne’s beastly face and towards Hubert.

He was surprised to find diamonds glittering in the corners of the dark mage’s eyes and tumbling down his sharp face. “I don’t know. I couldn't get it out of them.”

Unbidden, Felix thought of the last time he’d seen Marianne.

_It had been the day before the Fall of Fhirdiad, not that any of them could have known that. The morning had consisted of war meeting after war meeting and by midafternoon, not even Gilbert cared to deliberate any more._

_Felix had stalked the castle grounds in a particularly foul temper, as he had been, frankly, since the fall of Arianrhod. Ingrid had assured him there was nothing left for him to do once the Duke had fallen and the stronghold had been taken, but Felix still felt like there was something more he should have done_. _Assassinated Hubert or Ferdinand, maybe? Died gloriously, or something? Wasn’t that what Faerghusi soldiers were supposed to do in war?_

_Ingrid had hit him for that last one, and he didn’t tell her he still saw Ferdinand’s damn wyvern swooping down on his father whenever he shut his eyes._

_In the midst of his frustrated rage, he tripped right over Marianne as she’d knelt over a flowerbed. She gave a startled “Eep!” as they both landed hard in the dirt._

_“Shit,” Felix muttered, immediately working to disentangle himself. “Sorry.”_

_“It’s okay.” Marianne’s voice was so quiet, Felix strained to hear it. “I’m easy to miss.”_

_As ever when it came to Marianne, Felix felt the twin snakes of guilt and irritation bite into him. She was such a timid thing, scared of her own shadow and taking up too much space—and yet, it was she who could tame the boar. She could look him in the eye with such patience and depth of understanding that the rest of them felt compelled to side-shuffle and look away._

_Felix hoped to the Goddess she would make a decent Queen, because the King was going to need it._

_“You’ve been really out of it, lately,” Marianne added, her voice soft as the winter breeze. “Is there anything I can do?”_

_Felix blinked at her. What could anyone do? His father was dead, Arianrhod had fallen, and if they didn’t scrounge up a miracle soon, most of Fhirdiad would soon be, too._

_“It doesn't feel good to be the one left behind,” she said, even more quietly. “Does it?”_

_“You sound like the boar,” Felix snapped, and she flinched._

_Marianne shut her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and then opened them again. “I should. He’s the one who pointed it out to me.”_

_Part of Felix wanted to ask her what she even saw in such a beast, but most of him was in too much disarray to bother. They had a war to win tomorrow, after all, and this was no time for idle chatter about beasts who disguised themselves as men._

_If only he had known._

_“Life is a burden,” Marianne had added, thoughtfully, “but I hope you’ll consider living it, anyway.”_

“This is madness,” Felix muttered to the crest beast, reaching out to stroke its wolf-like snout. “Utter, stark-raving madness.”

The beast shuddered, and silence reigned in the ruined cathedral. 

“I’ve always wondered,” Hubert murmured from somewhere near the beast’s ruined flank, “does having a crest hurt?”

“Having the crest isn’t the problem. The relic weapons, though…” Felix shut his eyes. Even with how much it had pained him to use, the Aegis shield had still been as much a part of him as his own bones. “Well, Catherine explained it once as having pieces of your soul eaten away. It’s as good a description as any.”

Hubert dragged his gloved hand gently through a patch of fur still untouched by scars, and the beast calmed. “I watched Edelgard’s crests destroy her, day after day. It became a daily battle just to walk.”

“We aren’t meant to bear two crests.” Felix moved to scratch behind the beast’s ear, as though it were a dog in the Fraldarius kennel and he were still a duke. “The very concept is…”

“Sacrilegious?” Hubert inputted, something venomous leaking into his tone.

“I was _going_ to say,” Felix said, “a slap in the face.”

“To what?” Hubert hissed. “Crests cause suffering. My lady was not wrong about that.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” It took everything in Felix not to burst to his feet, not to shout through his grief. “Do you think I didn’t watch Sylvain’s crestless older brother try to kill him? That I didn’t hear the stories of the relief in her mother’s eyes when it was discovered Ingrid had a crest? That I didn’t lay awake at night as a child, unable to understand the surging pain in my blood?”

Hubert’s hand tightened in the beast’s fur, and the creature growled. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I know, Hubert.” Abruptly, Felix stopped scratching the beast and rose to his feet, silent as the falling snow. “I very much know.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the lone swordsman and the dark mage. All around them, snow swirled like so many tiny stars, burying the once-holy place in a layer of frost. Still the beast slumbered on, its rumbling breath echoing softly on the dying wind.

It was Hubert who broke first, glancing back towards where the altar had once stood. “You know,” he remarked lowly, “I always thought you could feel the Goddess’ absence in this place. Perhaps that is why I thought to bring Marianne here.”

Felix also relented, just a tad. “How long has she been here?”

Hubert sighed and turned back to the beast, as though talking to her was somehow easier than talking to Felix. “It was nine years ago, I believe, that Headmaster Viril announced his retirement. There was some gossip in the capital as to whom would replace him. General Ironfang’s son, perhaps? Ferdinand von Aegir?”

“Markus was here before?” Felix interrupted.

Hubert froze mid-pat. “Yes, he was teaching here well before I arrived as headmaster.”

Felix’s drunk mind processed at half speed, attempting to piece together Hubert’s story with Annette’s and failing repeatedly.

“They were both professors here, when Alessia was born,” Hubert added, not unkindly. “But that isn’t my story to tell, I’m afraid.”

Though directionless fury burned in Felix’s belly, he somehow managed to rein it in. “Right. The beast.”

“Around the same time,” Hubert continued, nodding to Felix, “Byleth had fallen gravely ill for the first time since losing her own crest, and Edelgard was having Twisted work double-time to find an answer. I went to supervise them some goddess-forsaken evening, and instead of finding mages pouring over tomes and perhaps titrating blood samples or something, I found this.”

He spread his arms wide, towards the shuddering beast sleeping in the cathedral where her betrothed had once kept eternal watch.

“I watched them drag her, naked, from her cage.” Hubert’s voice was little more than a shadow on the ice. “Watched them torment her with knives and scalpels, with white hot brands and cauterizing magic, until she finally broke. 

“They were prepared for that too, with chains and lightning magic—like they’d done it before. They suppressed the beast and took blood and fur and goddess knows what else from it, before throwing her back into a cage far too small for her beast form.”

Hubert’s eyes squeezed shut and he visibly, viscerally shuddered.

“I’m told I left the compound and vomited, but frankly, I don’t remember much after that.”

Felix found his voice, buried beneath the rubble and snow: “You’re a torturer yourself.”

“I am,” Hubert admitted, readily enough. “But there was always a purpose to it. Some goal in mind, some information at stake. Watching Twisted go after her like this was nothing of the kind.” He patted the beast’s wounded side once more before finally taking his hand back. “This was simply pain for its own sake.”

Felix’s drunk mind had long since stopped being able to process the horrors being presented to him, but still, Hubert pressed on:

“I later learned she birthed a child in that compound, and I still shudder to think how that came to pass, or what became of the child.”

It was then that Felix felt it—a visceral pain in his chest that made his battle scars feel like nothing, made losing the war feel like nothing. He would wonder if they’d crossed the border into the Eternal Flames themselves, if it weren’t so desperately cold.

“So that same day, I wrote to the old Headmaster Viril. I inquired as to his health and his staff, pretended to be surprised when I learned of his retirement, sent in my curriculum vitae with the seal of the Emperor embossed in the letterhead.”

“She didn’t know,” Felix said quietly, pressing a fist to his chest as though it would stop the gnawing pain. “Did she?”

Hubert shook his head. “Edelgard was quite shocked when I handed in my resignation. She could have ordered me not to go, of course, but she didn’t. I suppose it might be accurate to say I let her think it was because of her and Byleth.”

Felix’s smile was crooked, his vision unseeing. “You’re a brilliant bastard, Hubert.”

“I didn’t survive this long by playing nice, you know.” Hubert tried to smile, and it cracked the tears frozen to his face. “She threw me a party the night before I left. Invited all the Black Eagles Strike Force and smiled through her shock.”

Hubert’s voice grew, somehow, even more pained. “By the end of the night, my very drunk Emperor was telling me how much she would miss having me around and how well I would do at Garreg Mach, of course, but I wouldn’t be there to watch Finnja grow up, or make sure her plans went smoothly.”

Felix opened his mouth to give the answer he always gave, but snapped it shut again before Hubert could take his head clean off.

Then again, the dark mage had always been an excellent judge of character: “You want to say she’s a bitch, don’t you?”

“She is,” Felix admitted.

Hubert gave a hollow laugh, and the beast stirred once more. Its breathing did not resume. “It doesn’t matter—I still got the last laugh, didn’t I? I broke Marianne out of Twisted’s compound that very night, and Hanneman has been searching for a cure for my entire tenure.”

Felix was of half a mind to laugh—the deep, bellyaching kind—at the fact that the biggest ‘fuck you’ the Emperor of Adrestia had perhaps every received came at the hands of her former spymaster and long-suffering friend. 

“Is that why he won’t retire?” Felix asked instead.

Hubert nodded. “Not until she is cured.”

“Is there—” Felix cut himself off as the snow began to shift around them.

In mute horror, both drunks turned towards the beast as it rose steadily on its haunches. Its breath came in great, shuddering gasps, and its claws clacked against the broken tile of the cathedral floor. Snow rolled from its back in waves, littering the clear ground beneath it.

And when its eyes opened, they were a familiar, muted brown, though ringed in fiery red.

For a moment, all breath left Felix’s lungs, and he was rendered incapable of a single thought. His sword weighed heavily on his hip, and his instincts were screaming through his intoxication to _run, dammit!_

It was a great effort to instead remove his glove, and reach his scarred hand out.

The beast stared at him for a long moment, its eyes unreadable, its presence looming. If Marianne were truly in there, she seemed a long way off.

But then the beast nuzzled his scarred fingers like some sort of eldritch nightmare dog, and fell back onto its belly, staring intently.

And a voice, so soft, so easily missed, came from deep in its throat: “Fe… lix…?”

Felix didn’t realize he was crying until the tears froze on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: yes, I had to do a bit of retconning in chapter 3 with Felix’s memories of marianne. Since I know someone is going to bring that up, lol
> 
> Also, who guessed the cathedral and beast marianne??? How did you know????


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorothea schemes

“Hubert,” Edelgard said primly the following morning at their breakfast in the headmaster’s quarters, “are you keeping things from me?”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “I don’t believe so, milady?”

Edelgard fixed him in a knowing look as she delicately spread honey across her toast. It was supposedly an honor for the emperor to take time out of her busy schedule to have a sit-down breakfast with her old spymaster in private, but so far it had felt mostly like an interrogation. 

“I’m told there were two sets of footprints heading towards the cathedral, last night,” Edelgard continued calmly. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Hubert drew in a deep, practiced sigh. “Oh, every year the students somehow find out about the Goddess Tower tradition. Even with the place locked, some intrepid duo always finds their way in.”

Edelgard continued to give him an uncomfortably knowing look, and Hubert was beginning to wonder if he should have fixed up his will recently. “I’m told one of those figures was _you,_ Hubert,” she said.

“As I said,” Hubert repeated smoothly “the students somehow always find out about it. Someone needed to set them to rights.”

Edelgard fixed him in a knowing stare for a moment longer, and just as Hubert’s skin began to crawl—a truly impressive feat—she gave a very annoyed huff. “Damn it all! And here I was hoping you were sneaking off to the Goddess Tower yourself. Byleth mentioned she saw you and _someone_ head back there.”

Hubert genuinely did choke on his coffee this time. Political secrets, he could handle, but Edelgard prying into his love life (or lack thereof, as it was)? Not so much.

“Since when have I cared for the Goddess? I simply asked Felix to help me clear out the students. I’m sure that’s whom Byleth saw.”

Edelgard paused, toast midway to her mouth. “Felix Fraldarius?”

Had Hubert miscalculated? He wasn’t sure, and the look on her face gave nothing away. “He happened to be on hand.”

Edelgard stared at him for another moment, and then set her toast down again to reach out and squeeze his hand. “You know, Hubert, it’s okay.”

He jerked his hand back as though burned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean,” Edelgard began, “I certainly wouldn’t trust him with anything too...” She paused, looking for a word. “... _Adrestian,_ but I know you and Ferdinand have always had a fairly fraught relationship. It’s good to see you making friends.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed so firmly, he felt a migraine coming on. “Sorry. Hang on. Weren’t you just goading him at the ball last night?”

“I wanted to make certain of his loyalties,” Edelgard said. “And it seems he’s still a Faerghus dog through and through, but a tame one. So really, Hubert, it’s okay if you have a drinking buddy. Frankly, I think it would do you some good.”

Hubert stared at her for so long, Edelgard burst into laughter. It was bright as ever, and made Hubert’s chest squeeze uncomfortably.

“I guess what I’m saying is, if you asked a former enemy, who is now a teacher here and a friend at that, to help you with some rowdy students, you don’t need to hide that from me.” Her smile was tinged in sadness, and Hubert desperately wished to be anywhere but here. “Even if he was a Blue Lion. Okay?”

Hubert sighed. “Thank you, my lady. Your concern has been noted.”

He sincerely hoped Felix’s morning was going better than his was.

-)

“Felix!” called Dorothea Arnault from across the way. “Just the swordsman I wanted to see.”

Felix breathed the sigh of a very put-upon man. “Hello, Dorothea.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she pouted. “I just wanted to chat with you. Here, I’ll even talk to you while you beat up the training dummies.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. It did not help his hangover headache. “Fine.”

“Perfect.” She slipped her arm through his. “You simply _have_ to fill me in on some things.”

“Get off me,” Felix barked, yanking his arm back. 

Dorothea pouted at him—“Well, I see _someone_ hasn’t gotten any more fun since I last saw him.”—all the way to the training ground.

She settled herself on a stack of crates as Felix began his morning routine. He tried to breathe evenly and move through his usual practice exercises, but Dorothea’s unending chatter and sharp stare made both of those things difficult. 

“So Hubert tells me the students have taken a shine to you,” she said. “They _do_ love their grumpy swordsmaster.”

“I suppose,” grunted Felix. 

“And would you say they’re invested in you? Your class?”

“Again,” said Felix through a mimed parry, “I suppose.”

“Good.” Dorothea slipped from the stack of crates with the litheness of an alley cat. “Then I need your help with something.”

“Why are you back in my personal space?” Felix demanded.

“For the thing I need your help with,” Dorothea said. “I need you to outrageously flirt with me under the guise of teaching me something about swords.”

Felix blinked a few times at her. From anyone else, he would have insisted he misheard. From Dorothea, though…

“No.”

“Please?” Dorothea clapped her hands together and turned a green-eyed, puppy-dog stare on him. It would have been cute—from Alessia or someone equally as tiny, maybe. “I’ll even explain everything to Annette. I just need to know something.”

Felix spluttered. “What could that _possibly_ tell you?”

She shot him a pitying look. “The rumor mill, Felix dear. I need to know how it works here.”

“Fast,” Felix warned. 

“Certainly,” Dorothea agreed, “but Hubert and I need to know _how_ fast.” 

She had him. She could see it in the lines of his face as he groaned, even if they were half-hidden beneath his beard.

“You’re telling me whatever you learn _and_ putting out counter-rumors,” he warned. “I don’t need fifty students bothering me about you.”

Dorothea grinned, and across the way, the mighty training room doors began to creak open. “Deal.”

“Good morning, Professor Fraldarius!” Faustine called. Beside her, Ellie and Eberhard each gave a cheerful wave. 

“Morning, kids,” Felix grunted back at them. He envied their obvious lack of hangovers.

Dorothea shot him an expectant look, prompting Felix to add, “Have you three met our new faith magic professor?”

All three shook their heads, but it was Ellie who said, somewhat timidly, “We, um, heard that Dorothea Arnault was here though?”

Dorothea’s smiling was dazzling. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Felix went to roll his eyes but remembered Dorothea’s request belatedly, and had to mentally switch it to a smirk, instead. “As ever.”

Dorothea giggled that irritating giggle Felix remembered all too well from their years at Garreg Mach. “As does yours!” she countered. “Now, can you show me that thing I asked you about?”

Felix cocked one elegant eyebrow. “You’re going to need a training sword.”

“Oh, can’t I just use yours?” Dorothea asked, batting her eyelashes up at him.

The innuendo was so obvious, Felix half-expected Sylvain’s ghost to cackle in his ear. “Maybe if you buy me a drink first.”

Dorothea’s laugh was airy as Faustine called from across the way, “We can grab one for you, Professor Arnault!”

Dorothea smiled and graciously nodded to the students—“Oh, how kind of you, dear.”—and then she glanced expectantly to Felix, again.

It took him a moment, but he realized, “That’s Faustine.”

“Oh.” Dorothea pulled up short. “General von Engel’s youngest?”

“Yes, ma’am!” the Violet Owls’ House Leader called.

“The others are Ellie and Eberhard,” Felix added. “Do they have you teaching the early faith magic classes, or the late ones, do you know?”

“I’m not sure Hubert has gotten that far yet,” Dorothea said.

Felix snorted, and muttered, “His hangover probably makes it difficult.”

Dorothea’s eyebrows arched, and Felix could practically see her filing that away for future questioning as Faustine approached with a wooden practice sword. “You know, I saw your father not too long ago,” Dorothea said to the younger girl.

Faustine paused in the motion of handing over the sword. “I didn’t realize my father liked opera.”

Dorothea’s laugh was much harder than before, and Felix realized, she was having _fun_ tormenting him. “Oh, he doesn’t, so far as I know. This was at one of our dear Emperor’s tea parties.”

That was news to Felix. “The Blood Eagle is having _tea parties?”_

Dorothea made a show of leaning into his personal space to murmur, “You _probably_ don’t want to call her that here, Felix dear.”

“It’s okay,” Faustine said. “We won’t tell anyone. We know he’s from Faerghus.”

“Was it the beard that gave it away,” Dorothea asked jokingly, “or the accent?”

Felix sighed again, overdramatically. “Get into your ready stance, Arnault.”

“It was ‘Fraldarius,’” Faustine said to Dorothea, “actually.”

“I _am_ surprised Hubert never made you change your name, Felix,” Dorothea admitted. 

He shrugged. “Not like I have a dukedom anymore—nor can I hide the beard, or the accent.” 

Dorothea laughed again, much more naturally this time, at his pointed look. “Touché.”

Faustine went to go rejoin her friends, and Dorothea fell into her ready stance as requested. Felix took a moment to study her, at first to actually gauge her fighting form (which was passable, all in), and then to gauge her physical form (which was still lovely, although attached to one of the most irritating people Felix had perhaps ever dealt with).

He started to tell her to keep her feet shoulder-width apart and her arms up, but then he _swore_ he felt the ghost of Sylvain jab him in the ribs. 

Right. Felix was supposed to be flirting. _How would Sylvain do this?_

“Hmm?” Dorothea asked.

Felix drew in a breath, and then came around behind her. “Spread your legs for me,” he murmured near her ear, tapping at the inside of her ankle with his boot. 

He noted the flush that crept up the exposed skin of her neck as she complied, and then circled her waist to fix her arms. “And _this_ needs to be up…” His fingers just barely grazed her waist as he readjusted her stance. “...here.”

“You’ve gotten better at this,” Dorothea whispered, a touch conspiratorially.

Felix snorted. “Contracts like this,” he murmured back, “I just figure ‘what would Sylvain do?’, and then go with about half that.”

Dorothea burst into genuine, startled laughter, and Felix felt the eyes of his students on them. _Well,_ he thought dismally, _this was why you made her promise to start counter-rumors._

“Alright, Dorothea,” Felix said, circling back around to face her and folding his arms across his chest, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

“So this was my question,” Dorothea said. “Does this work like this…” She demonstrated a half-decent parry, ending with a theatrical flourish that had no place on a battlefield but probably looked impressive onstage. “...or like this?” She followed it with the entirely theatrical version, and Felix had to stifle a laugh.

“I forgot,” Felix said, in all honesty, “you were the Black Eagles’ dancer.”

“For a while,” she said. “But you and Petra always outdid me in our swords classes.”

“Only natural,” Felix said. Petra had been the other class assassin, after all. 

Dorothea rolled her eyes, breaking character for a moment. “In the end, I just liked the magic better. It was… easier.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow. “Magic is absolutely not easier than swords.”

Dorothea’s smile was sad. “I didn’t have to be nearly so close to the enemy, with magic.”

Oh. _That_ kind of easy.

“Whatever gets you through the war,” Felix said, not unkindly.

“Too true,” Dorothea said, and just like that, her mask was back. “So, which is it?”

“Largely the first one,” Felix said, “but I think you’ve been a prima donna too long.”

“Oh, like you minded when I saw you in New Enbarr!”

“When I saw you in New Enbarr, you weren’t asking me military questions.”

Chatter had begun, across the training ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix could see Faustine and Ellie with their heads bent, sneaking glances towards he and Dorothea when they thought neither professor was looking. He got the anxious sense that he’d done something wrong somehow, but couldn't pinpoint _what_.

_I’ll explain everything to Annette,_ Dorothea had said. 

Explain what, exactly?

“So, what about the first one is too theatrical for you?” Dorothea asked.

“Do it again,” Felix instructed. “ _Slowly_ , this time.”

She demonstrated the parry again, this time at half-speed. Felix watched with a practiced eye, noting her footwork, her form, and kept quiet right up until the ending.

“There,” he said. “Hold it.”

As Dorothea did, Felix drew his own blade. “So, the thing with swords,” Felix began, “is that most often, someone is going to attack you from their strong side.”

“The right,” Dorothea confirmed, “for most.”

Felix nodded. “So if I’m coming at you like this…” He swung at half speed in a downward, diagonal arc, and Dorothea instinctively moved her sword to intercept his. “...yes, good! That’s what you _actually_ need to be doing. Now, swing at me like I just did you— _slowly for the Goddess’ sake!”_

Dorothea compiled, fixing her speed mid arc, and Felix mimicked her previous attempt—catching the blade and then fumbling it with a flourish. 

“Ahh,” Dorothea said, with genuine understanding.

“Useless on the battlefield.” Felix sheathed his blade. “I’m sure it looks pretty onstage, though.” Another pause, and then Sylvain’s ghost prompted him to add, “Like you.”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty _now?”_ Dorothea asked, dramatically throwing her hand to her heart. “Or that I’m useless on the battlefield?”

“I’ve seen you cast meteor.” Felix laughed, despite himself. “And I see _some_ things never change.”

“And _you_ remain no fun,” Dorothea said, something bordering affection in her tone as she poked him in the chest. “Join me for tea later?”

Felix became aware of eyes on his back again. “I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Dorothea said with a wink. “It’s _my job_ to play hard-to-get. You’re more of a ‘dashing swordsman come to rescue the princess in the third act’ type.”

She blew him a kiss as she departed, and Felix hoped to hell she got what she came for.

-)

“He was _flirting_ with her!” Johanna Barr, the Iron Cranes’ House Leader, insisted. “Ellie Mattingly said she saw it with her own eyes!”

“Professor Fraldarius is way too serious,” Nikolaus von Schwarz, their white mage, argued. “There’s no way.”

“Okay, but she's _gorgeous_ ,” Johanna said. “And apparently, he knows her from when he was a mercenary.”

Annette’s stomach churned as the Iron Cranes continued to bicker. If it weren’t for Alessia clutching her hand, she probably would have foregone the lunch line entirely and hidden in her classroom under piles of notes. Felix was flirting with Dorothea, to the point that the students could see it? That didn’t sound like him at all. 

Then again, maybe it did. Dorothea _was_ gorgeous, and it wasn’t like Felix was seeing anyone.

“Are you certain it wasn’t the other way around?” Annette heard herself ask anyway.

Johanna and Nikolaus both jumped.

“That is,” she hastened to add, “are you certain it wasn’t Professor Arnault doing all the flirting?”

“That’s what I said!” Nikolaus exclaimed.

“Ellie said it was both,” Johanna confirmed.

Annette’s grey haze bloomed as she and Alessia got through the lunch line and found seats with Ignatz. He was happy to entertain Alessia after one look at Annette’s face, and for that, the mage was deeply grateful. She picked listlessly at today’s beef and potato stew, and didn’t register the footsteps behind her until the accompanying voice spoke.

“Annette, can I have a word please? Outside?”

Dorothea was the last person Annette wanted to talk to right now, and she couldn’t even pinpoint why. Felix could flirt with whomever he pleased, dammit, and so could she!

( _I suppose,_ admitted a small voice in the back of Annette’s head, _that’s exactly the problem.)_

“Um, sure,” Annette managed. “Ignatz, could keep an eye on Alessia, please? Apparently, I’m wanted outside.”

“Of course.” He shot Dorothea a warning look that, coming from Ignatz, was almost comical. 

Annette appreciated the effort, though.

Outside was bitterly cold, even in the midday sun, and the students hurrying past barely spared them a passing glance—even for Dorothea. 

“What is it?” Annette asked, folding her arms across her chest in what she hoped was a vaguely threatening manner and not simply evidence she was cold. “If it’s about your classes, can it wait until tomorrow?”

“Oh no, honey, Hubert will fill me in on those.” Dorothea waved her off with an elegant flick of her wrist. “I’m here to warn you.”

“Warn me,” Annette said flatly, unable to make it a question. _This should be good._

Dorothea nodded. “You’re going to hear some rumors about Felix flirting with me in the training ground. I asked him to; I’m testing the rumor mill for Hubert.”

Annette blinked at her a few times as color she hadn’t realized was missing suffused into the edges of her vision. “You… asked him to?”

Dorothea nodded again. “I figured it would cause shockwaves, given who he is as a person. So I wanted to let you know I’m not here to steal your man, or anything. I promise.”

Dorothea must have read Annette’s stunned expression as something else entirely, because she winced and quickly added, “I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words.”

“It’s fine.” Annette waved her off. “And you’re right; I have heard.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened. “ _Already?”_

Annette nodded. “Johanna and Nikolaus were talking about it in the lunch line, just now.”

Dorothea did some quick mental calculations. “Good Goddess, it hasn’t even been three hours! I know Felix said it worked quickly, but that’s worse than the Imperial Palace.”

“Wouldn’t Hubert be annoyed you’re telling me this?” Annette asked. “Why bother?”

“What do you mean, _why?”_ Dorothea blinked a few times. “You’re together, aren’t you?”

Annette suddenly felt faint. “N-no, we’re not.”

“You’re _not?”_ Dorothea’s incredulous stare only grew. “Then what was all of that at the winter ball? I saw him dancing with you, and your daughter!”

When this didn’t change Annette’s facial expression, Dorothea added, emphatically, “Felix! Dancing! With _your_ eight-year-old! Who by the way, is just adorable.”

“Alessia just took a liking to him,” Annette tried to argue, her face flushing almost painfully hot in the bitter air.

“Annette,” Dorothea said, two steps shy of exasperated. “I also saw him when you walked in. He _choked.”_

“Stop it!” Annette tried to shoo her off.

“ _Choked,_ Annette!”

“Dorothea, _enough!”_

Dorothea’s good-natured teasing came to a grinding halt. “Annette,” she said, much more gently, “that man is just as in love with you as he was twenty years ago. It’s really okay.” She offered an encouraging smile. “You can love him back.”

A million reasons why she had to be wrong swirled through Annette’s mind, but mostly, she wanted to know one thing. “How could you possibly know? You’ve been here less than a week.”

“He’s a hardass mercenary wrapped around your daughter’s little finger and whose eyes followed _you_ around the room. How else?”

Annette could only stare at her in open shock, and Dorothea could practically see the inner workings of her mind turning, like a Titanus on the move.

“Why do you want to help, anyway?” Annette asked, quietly. 

Dorothea’s smile turned a touch more predatory. “One, because I hate Markus Von Engel like every self-respecting Enbarri woman.”

Annette let out a weak laugh.

“Two, because I haven’t forgotten who tutored me all through school.” Her grin became more genuine, but Annette somehow found herself _more_ concerned, as opposed to less. “The least I can do is, apparently, help you get your head out of your ass.”

“Hey!”

“Felix, too!” Dorothea defended. “Goddess knows how often Sylvain tried. I suppose I’ll simply just have to take up where he left off.”

Annette wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, Everyone! and welcome back to the darkfic :3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Annette's fears are realized, and Felix babysits an eight-year-old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST NIGHT OF LATE NIGHT FREEDOM BEFORE WORK STARTS AGAIN, POST FIC

Winter break brought with it the end of the Emperor’s annual visit and a welcome respite from classes. With a fair number of students returned home for the end-of-year holidays, Felix found himself with a sudden surfeit of free time. Most of it was spent either in the training ground or catching up on grading with Ignatz or Shamir, but he also increasingly found himself roped into entertaining Alessia somehow so _Annette_ could catch up on grading.

He didn’t really mind, though.

“So did we ever learn anything from Dorothea’s experiment?” Annette asked him one afternoon.

“Exactly what I told her from the start.” Felix snorted, and readied another little green magic ball for Alessia to chase when she returned from across the courtyard. “The rumor mill works fuckin’ fast around here.”

“Speaking of rumors,” Annette said, forgoing her grading for the moment, “I heard one the other day that you and Dorothea had a bet that you won?”

“Did we?” Felix asked. “What did I win, do you know?”

“Apparently, she paid for a lovely romantic dinner for you the other night.”

Felix snorted. “And how is that a win?”

Annette opened her mouth to say that it wasn’t with Dorothea, but she was interrupted by her daughter.

“Mama!” Alessia called, rounding the corner of the classroom courtyard from wherever she’d chased the last ball Felix had thrown. “Uncle Felix! Look!”

She had a ball of faith magic clutched in her little hands, and Felix felt himself smile. “You’re getting good with catching those,” he told her.

Alessia shook her head. “No, no, I didn’t catch this one. _Look!”_

She dropped the one she was holding and put her hands together, mimicking how Felix always cast the spell to create little green ball. Her tiny brow furrowed, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then a little green spark began to form between her hands.

Felix’s eyebrows raised. “Did you figure that out yourself?”

Alessia nodded. “I watched you!”

Annette began, “That’s great--!”

A flash of light burst before their eyes, searing an all-too-familiar shape into Felix and Annette’s eyes. The green ball in Alessia’s hands grew twice its size, and far more stable. She yelped in surprise and dropped it immediately.

Annette and Felix froze, glancing to each other.

“Has that happened before?” Felix asked Alessia, very quietly.

“No.” Alessia’s grey eyes were wide, and the fear there hurt his heart. “What was that? Is it bad? Am I dying?”

Felix glanced to Annette, who had begun hyperventilating. “Easy, ‘Nette.” He patted her back a few times, and Annette slowly sank into herself. 

“You’re not dying, little one.” Annette’s own blue eyes were wide, and if Felix hated the fear in Alessia’s eyes, seeing it in Annette’s _gutted_ him.

“Come with me, Alessia.” Felix reached out a gloved hand. “Let’s go see Professor Hanneman.”

“Felix.” Annette reached out and caught his hip. “Felix, please… I just… need a moment.”

Felix knew a panic attack when he saw one, and felt himself torn between two of the most important people in this postwar nightmare that passed for his life. 

“Do I need to get you to Mercedes?” Felix asked. “Or do you want to come with me to Hanneman’s office?”

Annette’s hands twitched at her sides, like she didn’t know whether to reach out or cave in. 

“Mama?” Alessia rushed over to her. “Mama, did I do something wrong?”

“No, little one.” Annette wrapped her arms around her daughter and hugged her fiercely. “No, you didn’t.”

Annette drew in a breath so deep, Felix watched her entire torso expand and deflate again.

“Alright, c’mon,” Felix said, patting several times at Annette’s back. “On your feet.”

And that was how Felix came to be dragging both Dominic women with him to Mercedes’ room. The white mage took one look at Annette and ushered them in, hurriedly.

“I’m going with Alessia to bother Hanneman,” Felix told her. “Can you keep an eye on Annette until I get back?”

A great understanding—followed by a great sorrow—crossed Mercedes’ kind face. “Of course.”

“Felix,” Annette croaked. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” he immediately countered, with such force that Mercedes was taken aback.

“Mama,” Alessia said, clinging to Felix’s cloak, “if you don’t feel good, you should let Auntie Mercie take care of you.” 

More than anything, it was Alessia who broke her. “Just make sure,” Annette said to Felix, looking him hard in the eye. “That… if she has it...”

“Sure,” said Felix, not really certain what he was agreeing to. He nodded, harshly, as Alessia slipped her fingers into his.

-)

“Hanneman!” Felix bellowed, knocking on the man’s door with his free hand. “Open up!”

Abrupt shuffling erupted from within Hanneman’s room, and then, a moment later, the old man appeared in his doorway, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Felix!” he said. “What in _Fodlán_ are you shouting about? I will have you know I—”

“Do you still have that Crest analyzer?” Felix interrupted.

Hanneman stiffened. “I beg your pardon, I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow at him, and Alessia tugged on his arm. “Uncle Felix, please don’t shout,” she murmured.

“Hanneman,” Felix said, much more quietly though no less sharply, “I was a student when Byleth Eisner was a professor here. I _know_ you didn’t get rid of it.”

Hanneman sighed, glanced across the courtyard behind Felix, and then unceremoniously ushered the swordsman and his charge inside.

“Be a dear and look under the bed for me?” Hanneman said, lowering himself into his desk chair with a series of groans.

Felix was immediately low to the ground, squinting through the dark haze beneath Hanneman’s bed until he found the golden saucer that had once taken up residence in the professor’s office. He cleared away a couple of loose shoes and dragged it back out into the light of day.

In the light, Felix could just make out the faded runes and cross-lines on the well-loved disc. _How the mighty fall._

“Alessia, isn’t it?” Hanneman asked the girl. At her nod, he continued, “Would you be so kind as to hold your hand over that, please?”

Alessia looked at Felix, and he felt an uncomfortable wave of responsibility wash over him. “It doesn't hurt,” he told her.

Dubiously, Alessia held her arm out over the disc, and Hanneman began weaving a spell rune in the air before him. Felix distinctly remembered his own Crest being tested, very differently, when he had been even younger than Alessia. _We have to know before you begin sword training_ , his father had explained. _For your safety, and for the quartermaster’s._

And Felix had, after all, learned to swing a sword before he could write his own name.

A Crest flared to life over the analyzer, and Alessia jerked her arm back with a startled yelp. Felix shot forward to catch her before she fell over backwards onto the hard stone floor.

“Could you try again for me, please?” Hanneman asked kindly, preparing to weave the spell again.

Felix moved to let stand her up, but Alessia kept leaning into his hands. So he left them there to steady her as she reached out again, this time braced. The Crest bloomed once again over the analyzer, an ethereal rune etched into the air before them

“Well, I’ll be,” Hanneman said, taking a moment to clean his monocle on the hem of his shirt before peering through it. “I do believe that’s the Crest of Dominic.”

“It is,” Felix confirmed. 

As if there were anything else it _could_ be. The von Engels were famously Crestless.

Felix patted Alessia’s back a few times before letting go, and the little girl held her own in his absence. A well of unexpected pride surged in his chest.

Hanneman looked, exhaustedly, to Felix. “Will you and Annette explain to her?”

“Yeah,” Felix said, kicking the Crest analyzer back under Hanneman’s bed and ignoring the old man’s wince. “Come on, little wolf. Let’s get you a snack and see about your Mama.”

“Okay,” said Alessia, confusion written across her little brow, but trust in her little fingers as she slipped them into Felix’s again.

-)

Mercedes informed them that Annette had panic attacked herself into a crying fit and then passed out, and so Felix was left to explain to an increasingly anxious Alessia alone. He brought her out to the nearby forest path, where they were both less likely to be overheard by the ears in Garreg Mach’s walls, and where maybe Alessia might not have _entirely_ bad memories of the next hour. It was at least a lovely view.

“Is Mama okay?” Alessia asked, swinging her legs as she sat atop the stone fence beside the road.

“She will be,” Felix said, folding his arms across his chest.

Alessia’s stare was more piercing than even Shamir’s. “What’s wrong with her?”

Felix sighed. By all rights, it should have been Annette explaining this, but Alessia deserved to know. It was _safer_ for her to know. 

Plus she deserved not to feel like she’d killed her mother, or something.

“Your mother is scared,” Felix said.

“Mama can’t be scared,” Alessia immediately argued. “She’s not scared of anything.”

Felix tried to smile, but he knew it didn't exactly work. “She’d be glad to hear you say so, but she is, Alessia. She’s scared for you.”

“But I didn’t do it on purpose!” Alessia burst out. “I don’t even know what I did!”

Felix shushed her. “I know, little wolf. I know.”

How in the hell was he supposed to explain Crests in Edelgard’s so-called United Fodlán? How could he warn an eight-year-old about the horrors that could happen, even still, if word reached the wrong ears?

He supposed he may as well start at the beginning,

“You and your mama—and I, actually—are descended from the legendary heroes called the Ten Elites. Has your mama told you about them?”

“A little,” Alessia said, picking at the hem of her cardigan, now. “She said they were heroes.”

“They were brave,” Felix said, “and they were strong. They saved Fodlán a long time ago from people who would have rather seen it destroyed.”

Alessia nodded. “Mama said that, too.”

“And part of why the Ten Elites _could_ save Fodlán was because they had what are called Crests.” Felix felt a bit like an idiot for dumbing it down so far, but Alessia seemed to be following, and so he continued. “Once, it was believed that Crests were blessings of power given to us by the Goddess. They were signs of her favor, and commanded respect. And it was thought that the more of the Ten Elites’ blood flowed in your veins, the more powerful your Crest would be.”

“But those all sound like good things,” Alessia pointed out.

Felix’s smile grew even sadder. “They used to _be_ good things.”

A hush fell across the forest path, and Alessia stopped kicking at the wall.

“Are they not good anymore?”

Felix made a face. “Crests themselves aren’t good or bad—they just are. They’re family traits, like how you and your mama have red hair, and I have brown eyes.”

“Okay,” said Alessia, her brow furrowed.

“But there are people who think Crests are bad, because people used to think that having a Crest made you better than someone who didn’t have one.”

“But that’s stupid! Charlotte doesn’t have a Crest.” Alessia made a face. “At least, I don’t think.”

“Yeah,” Felix said with a little laugh. “Yeah, it was stupid. But it’s how things used to be.”

“What happened to make them bad?” Alessia asked.

Felix sighed. “The war, little wolf. The one your mama and I fought in, a long time ago.”

“Where Emperor Edelgard united Fodlán?” Alessia asked.

“Yeah,” Felix said, although the words bit at his heart. “There used to be a place called the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, too. That’s where your mama and I were born, and where we grew up.”

_And where a lot of my friends died,_ Felix couldn’t help but think.

“Uncle Felix!” Alessia’s eyes widened. “Mama says we’re not allowed to talk about that!”

Felix sighed. “She’s right, generally speaking. You shouldn't really go talking about Faerghus much.”

Alessia looked down at her boots. They were nearly worn through and would need replacing, soon. “She never tells me why not, though.”

Felix felt a little bit like he was treading on Annette’s toes when he said, “It’s because Emperor Edelgard doesn’t like it.”

“Well, why does that matter?” Alessia asked. “I don’t like cheese gratin, but I don’t tell Charlotte not to eat it.”

Felix laughed despite himself. “Charlotte won’t hurt you if you tell her not to eat things, though.”

Alessia’s eyes went wide again. “Will the Emperor?”

Felix sighed. “There are a lot of people who would want to hurt you if they found out you have a Crest or Faerghusi blood—not just the Emperor. _That’s_ why your mama is so scared.”

“Oh.” Alessia seemed to think something over for a minute. “Do those people want to hurt you and Mama, too?”

“Yeah,” said Felix. “And your Auntie Mercie, and Deputy Headmaster von Aegir, and a lot of other people.”

“Auntie Mercie has a Crest too?” Alessia asked, incredulous.

Felix nodded. “There used to be a lot more of us, even.”

Alessia was quiet for a long moment, digesting everything. Felix came to rest beside her, leaning against the stone fence and surveying the road. It was deserted in the midafternoon, too early for the end of the workday, and too late for the lunch crowd to be returning to the fields.

“How do I stop it?” Alessia suddenly asked. 

Felix blinked. “Stop what?”

“The Crest. How do I stop it? Or get rid of it?”

Fury bloomed in his chest, before it drowned in an ocean of sorrow. “You can’t get rid of it,” Felix said. “It’s a part of you.”

“But Uncle Felix, what if I don’t _want_ it?”

It was the reverse of everything he’d heard his entire life up until the war, and Felix couldn’t help but think, blackly, that maybe Edelgard had won after all.

“Tough,” he said. “We don’t get to choose if we inherit a Crest.”

Alessia frowned at him. “Well, can I make it not go off?”

Felix sighed. “You’d have to ask your mama what exactly sets your Crest off, but I know it’s magic-related. That’s why you’ve never seen it before. Mine goes off when I’m fighting, sometimes, so I know when I pick up a sword to use it, I have to be careful.” 

Alessia blinked. “We don’t have the same Crest?”

“No, I have the Crest of Fraldarius. You and your mama have the Crest of Dominic.”

“Oh,” said Alessia. 

She then said, so quietly Felix nearly missed it, “I was hoping you were my daddy.”

After surviving the entire the Duscur War, the War for the Unification of Fodlán, the Gautier Rebellion, the Death of the Kingdom, countless mercenary contracts, and needling the empress herself at a glorified dinner party, Felix Hugo Fraldarius was apparently going to meet his end at the hands of a tiny eight-year-old with her mother’s penchant for magic and her father’s eyes.

“No,” said Felix quietly, “I’m not. But I’m happy to be your Uncle.”

Alessia threw her arms around him, so tightly Felix heard the breath _whoosh_ out of his lungs. He hugged her back, sideways on the wall, for as long as she held onto him.

“Do you know my daddy?” Alessia asked, kicking the wall with her heels again.

Felix was not getting into this conversation. Crests, he could do. The war, he could do. But he was _not_ going to explain this one.

“You need to ask your mama about that.”

“She won’t tell me,” Alessia said huffily. “And Auntie Mercie says it’s because my daddy was mean.”

Felix laughed. “And so you thought it was _me?”_

“Not really,” Alessia confessed. “I was just hoping that it was your kind of mean, and not Professor von Engel’s kind of mean. He smiles too hard and talks too loud.”

Felix’s laugh came out more like he was choking.

“And you’re _never_ mean to Mama,” Alessia added. “Or me.”

“‘Course not,” Felix said, coughing a bit. “I don’t have any reason to be.”

Alessia giggled. “What if I didn’t want to go to bed, or eat the gross food Mama tells me is good for me?”

“I wouldn’t be mean,” Felix said. “I’d just warn you again that the Shadowman eats misbehaving children.”

“Eep!” cried Alessia.

Felix immediately snatched at her before she fell off the fence. “Whoa, whoa, easy there, little wolf.”

Alessia set herself to rights, and then said, very quietly, “I know you said you _aren’t_ , but _can_ you be my daddy?”

Dead.

He was dead.

And it was tiny Alessia Morgan Dominic who did it. Annette would have to scrape him off the stone fence after he bled out, and she and Mercedes would have to bury the only other living Blue Lion.

Felix forced himself to reach out and muss up Alessia’s hair, so that she had something to distract her from whatever expression was on his face. “That’s not up to me, little wolf.”

Little did he know, Alessia was filing that one away for future reference.

“But Mama likes you!” she argued.

Felix had no idea how to process that information, and so like a good Faerghusi warrior, he shoved it into a corner of his mind and set a mental bookshelf on it, for good measure. “That’s because your mother and I are friends. I would hope she likes me.”

Alessia made a face. “She talks about you a lot, though.”

“I’m sure you’re just imagining things,” Felix said, adding that to the pile beneath the mental bookshelf, as well. “Now listen to me carefully,” he added, bringing the conversation back around. “If someone _ever_ tries to hurt you—especially if it’s because of your Crest—I want you to come and tell your mama, or me, or your Auntie Mercie. Okay?”

“What if I can’t find you?” Alessia asked.

Felix drew in a deep breath as he considered the question. If there would one person who would never turn _anyone_ , least of all a child, over to TWSITD, it was: “Headmaster von Vestra. Find and tell him.”

Tiny hands alighted on his arm and squeezed. “But Uncle Felix, he’s so _scary!”_

Felix snorted. “So am I. But he’ll help you if your mama, Auntie Mercie, and I can’t, for some reason. So I want you to promise me that you’ll tell at least one of us, okay?”

Alessia looked down at her boots again. “I promise.”

“Good,” said Felix. “Now, let’s go see your mama.”

“Okay,” said Alessia, hopping back down off the fence. She reached for his hand without any prompting. “Can you tell me about the Ten Elites some more?”

“Well,” said Felix, checking over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone, “Fraldarius was a fantastic Pegasus knight…”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix and Annette trade secrets.

Annette was mortified to learn when she awoke that Felix had brought Alessia back to Mercedes’ room no fewer than _three_ separate times _,_ and each time when Mercedes had apologetically told him that Annette was still passed out or indisposed, Felix had shrugged it off and apparently gone and entertained Alessia for what amount to the rest of the day.

Annette wasn’t sure if the lightheadedness was left over from the panic attack, or caused from something else entirely, but right now she had a daughter to parent.

“You feeling better?” Felix had asked when Annette had appeared in his doorway bearing tea. Alessia was snoozing on his bed, curled up under one of his Fraldarius-blue cloaks, and a book lay open on his desk.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Annette said, genuinely, and with feeling.

“Eh, don’t mention it. Alessia’s a good kid.”

They both turned to glance towards the sleeping child snuggling Felix’s pillow like a stuffed animal, and then Felix shooed Annette out the door.

And that was how they ended up leaning against the short stone wall outside the teachers’ dorms just across from Felix’s door, resting teacups and a slowly-cooling metal teapot against the cold stone. 

“What did Hanneman find?” Annette asked, anxiety spiking in her gut despite the calming tea and quiet night. “And what did you tell Alessia?”

“Hanneman found her Crest of Dominic,” Felix confirmed, quietly. “And I told her what she needed to know. About the Ten Elites, the Crests, the Goddess, Edelgard and her War, and why she needs to be careful about whom she tells that she has a Crest.”

_“Felix!”_ Annette hissed. “You can’t just—”

“I told her the Emperor doesn't like Crests, or Faerghus,” Felix interrupted. “Which I figured is both true enough and age-appropriate.”

Annette’s anger deflated as quickly as it had come. “Oh.”

“I also told her that you and I are from Faerghus, and that it doesn't exist anymore. And that if _anyone_ tries to hurt her, especially for her Crest, she needs to come find you, me, or Mercedes, or barring us, Hubert.”

Annette was taken aback. _“Hubert?”_

“If something happened to us,” Felix said, “you know he wouldn't let anything happen to her.”

Annette studied him for a moment. “How do you figure?”

She watched as something spread across his face, shifted away as quick as it had come. “Look at him defend his students.”

Annette had to admit, he had a point—but she didn’t like it. “And how do you know that he wouldn’t just hand her off to the first Imperial soldier he met?”

“Because,” Felix said, “he’s the one who was the most furious the night Eberhard was attacked.”

They were quiet for a moment, sipping tea in companionable silence. Annette swore it was almost peaceful, almost like…

_Don’t think about it, Annette. Don’t put him there._

(…Well, almost like her own mother and father sitting up by the fire and chatting late into the night, after they’d thought she’d gone to bed but was in fact reading by candle stubs and moonlight.)

She had to stop this, had to stop daydreaming, had to stop putting Felix where her heart couldn’t handle him leaving.

Then he said, “You should probably tell her about her father, by the way. She asked me if I were him.”

And it all went to shit.

Annette spat hot tea out across the snowy thoroughfare. A bemused Felix offered her a handkerchief, which she gratefully took. 

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Annette managed after a moment. “I’ll have a talk with her.”

“I don’t blame her, ‘Nette,” Felix said softly. “And I don’t blame you for being apprehensive about it, either.”

Annette froze, all the way to the tips of her fingers. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

The look he gave her pierced right through her, pinning her heart to the wall beyond like a well-loosed arrow from an assassin’s bow. It was all-knowing and yet so, _so_ sad.

“They have the same eyes, Annette.”

This whole time, Felix had _known_ Markus von Engel was Alessia’s father? Annette could hardly process the realization. She clutched the stone wall and took deep, shuddering breaths, trying not to fly into a panic for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

“He’s well-connected, but ultimately just a prick, ‘Nette.” Felix’s voice was soft and rough, like the hand he set to her back. “We all have one of those in our history, I think.”

Something like hope drifted across Annette’s heart, only to immediately be snuffed out by the reality that _he didn’t know._

He didn’t know about Markus’ history.

He didn’t know about the Whore of Dominic.

It rang in her ears despite having never left her mind. _He doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know…_

“You don’t know,” she said, softly, not quite believing it. “Do you?”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “Know what?”

So this was it, then. There would be no more kind words or soft looks like the one he was giving her now. There would be no more lazy afternoons in the courtyard where she studied magic and tried not to stare at his broad shoulders and rare smiles as he played mages’ catch with Alessia. There would be no more of his deep laughter and bleak sense of humor, no more discussing problem students with him and Mercedes and Ignatz over dinner in town.

She had ruined everything. Again.

“The scandal,” Annette said, even more quietly. “The von Engel Affair. Whatever the hell they’re calling it, these days.”

Felix’s brow furrowed further. “Do I look like I was following Enbarri rumors while I was sleeping in the dirt and killing people for gold?”

Annette winced. “No, I suppose not.”

She stared deeply into her tea for so long a moment, she wasn’t certain she’d ever stop. She felt something hot brush her face, saw something tiny and diamondlike fall into her mug. The effort to breathe in, to speak the words into being, was staggering, as though if she kept them in, they wouldn’t be true:

“Markus was married, Felix.”

To Felix’s credit, his eyes shot open wide in stunned shock, but he didn’t immediately launch into a tirade about how awful she was or demand to know what was wrong with her. That was more than her own father had done, and for that, Annette would be eternally grateful.

Even if Felix decided that he never wanted to talk to her again, after this.

“I didn’t know,” Annette whispered. “He kept it from me. _Everyone_ kept it from me. Ferdinand told me after everything blew up that they thought I already knew.”

“Start from the beginning, ‘Nette,” Felix said quietly. His tone was carefully neutral, betraying nothing.

“After we left the School of Sorcery, Mercedes and I came straight here.” Annette took a bracing sip of her tea. “Markus was the deputy headmaster at the time. Mercedes and I wanted to keep to ourselves and keep our history more or less a secret, not make waves, not cause trouble—you know?”

“Yeah,” said Felix, “makes sense.”

“But Markus… he was just _so_ persistent, and _so_ charming.” Annette tried to smile through her tears, but they came anyway. “And I fell for him like an idiot.

“On the surface, he was the perfect boyfriend—mannered, cultured, handsome, _brilliant_. We could talk about magic or philosophy or the old masters’ works for hours and never notice the time.”

“I get the picture,” Felix muttered.

Annette winced. “Sorry, just... starting from the beginning.”

“Then what happened?” Felix prompted, not unkindly.

“Then… well, he was always so _pushy._ He wanted to do this, we should do it. He wanted to do _that,_ we should go there. And he’d take long trips back home—for political nonsense, he assured me, or to see his younger siblings—and he wasn’t exactly the most thoughtful lover, either.” Annette tried to breathe, but the wind wouldn’t come. “He proposed at some point along the way, and I remember I was wearing that ring when I discovered my monthly bleeding was late.”

Annette was looking at her hands, now, so scarred from all her years of battle but mercifully devoid of Markus’ gaudy gift. Had she been looking at Felix, however, she would have seen his jaw grit so hard, the tendons in his neck stood out.

“I remember thinking it was weird that Mercedes was more helpful during my pregnancy than he was, but I told myself it was because she was a white mage. She’d put my intestines back during the war; of _course_ she’d be more helpful.”

Felix winced viscerally, but still, Annette didn’t notice.

She gave a breathless, toneless laugh. “I don’t remember much of being in labor, thank the Goddess, but I _do_ remember that Markus wasn’t there, and the first people I saw besides Mercedes were Ferdinand and Hubert.”

Felix blinked a few times, certain he’d misheard. “ _What?”_

At his low snarl, Annette finally looked up at him, startled. “Hubert was the Headmaster by then, and he’d arranged a gift from the faculty—teas to help with the healing process, some cakes from the bakery in town, nappies for the baby, that sort of thing. I hate to say it, but Edelgard trained him _phenomenally.”_

Felix gave a low, barking laugh. “He probably figured he’d have to do it for her, one day.”

“ _Someone_ sure did,” Annette agreed. “But anyway, I asked where Markus was, had they seen him? And then they sort of shared this uncomfortable look, and Ferdinand told me that Bianca von Engel was in town for a surprise visit. And I remember he said it like I was supposed to know who that was.

“So I asked, and then Hubert said, very quietly, that was Markus’ wife.”

“That rat bastard didn’t even tell you _himself?”_ Felix snarled.

For the second time in so many minutes, Annette was startled by Felix’s reaction. He was angry with… _Markus?_ No one ever got angry with _Markus;_ it was always she who was somehow supposed to have known better.

“It gets better,” Annette told him with a rueful smile.

Felix folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, _does_ it?” 

“I’m sure it was hard to tell who was more shocked—me, or Ferdinand. I found out later, they were the ones who’d brought me the basket because they were the only ones _willing_ to.”

“Manuela, Hanneman, Ignatz?” Felix interrupted. “ _No one?”_

“Hanneman is Hanneman, Ignatz wasn’t here yet, and I later found out Manuela was good friends with Bianca von Engel, so I’d hardly expect her on my side. Not then, anyway.” She tried to shrug, couldn’t quite pull of the nonchalance required. “But I shudder to think how much money Hubert had to put into that gift himself, since I know the rest of the then-faculty didn’t care for me much.”

Annette gave a bitter laugh. “Now I understood why.”

“I can’t believe they just kept quiet,” Felix growled. “What kind of fucking—”

“Felix,” Annette interrupted, and by some miracle, he shut it, “it was my fault.”

Felix stared at her so long, Annette started babbling again to fill the silence: “So as Ferdinand is going on and on about how they all thought I knew, the von Engels were _very_ famous, blah blah blah, Hubert is suddenly on his feet, saying he’s terribly sorry, he’s just remembered he has another engagement this afternoon.”

A predatory smirk curled across Felix’s face, half-hidden in his beard. “Oh, _did_ he?”

Annette’s smile grew a touch more genuine. “He’s never told me as such, but Mercedes told me later that Hubert went straight to Markus von Engel and asked him where he’d been, his fiancée and baby daughter were asking after him. I almost wish I could have seen the look on his wife’s face, because apparently she was right there with him when Hubert asked.”

Felix burst into rough laughter, and a couple of students passing by the entrance to the professors’ dorms startled.

“Apparently, Markus tried to play dumb,” Annette added. “And Hubert tried _very graciously_ to backtrack.” She dropped into a lower, smoother cadence in a passable imitation of the headmaster. “‘Oh, I _see_. I don’t follow Enbarri rumors as well as I should, these days. I must have you mistaken for the _other_ famous general’s son we have on staff, here.’”

“ _Incredible_.” Felix was going to have to find some sort of gift for the dark mage, at this rate. 

“Apparently, he left Markus there, absolutely stunned, but Bianca chased after him and demanded to see me.”

“Whoa, no,” Felix interrupted. “That’s an awful idea.”

“That’s what Hubert said! But she convinced him she wasn’t going to hurt me—or more importantly, Alessia—so she came, and Hubert hovered at the edge of the room like it was not bizarre _at_ all.”

A surge of fraternal warmth like he hadn’t felt in a long time bloomed in Felix’s chest. Hubert was _definitely_ getting a bottle of whiskey, plus whatever else Felix could find that the dark mage might even vaguely like, weirdness be damned.

Annette sighed, then, her breath puffing out in frosty clouds. “Bianca and I talked for a long while. She yelled; I yelled; Alessia yelled. It was a good time.”

Felix snorted, despite himself.

“I learned this wasn’t the first time he’d done this, either,” Annette continued, softly. “I was just one in a long line of embarrassments. Bianca asked me point blank if I’d known about her, and I told her no, of course not. I was raised to be a baroness; did she really think I would’ve wanted her leftovers?”

The muscles in Felix’s jaw twitched. “And that was enough for her?”

“It was,” Annette confirmed. “She even wished me good luck with the baby, and told me that she’d at least _attempt_ to make Markus uphold his responsibilities. But also that if I ever attempted to use Alessia to gain leverage on the von Engel house, I would be summarily _dealt with.”_

“ _Adrestians_ ,” Felix muttered.

Annette snorted. “I told her Alessia didn’t need his name, thanks, she had mine.”

Felix cackled. “Oh, I’m sure she _loved_ that.”

Annette gave a small, hiccupping laugh. “But that was that. Hubert put Markus on paternity leave, which honestly, could not have been more hilarious.”

“He’s got our fucked-up sense of humor,” Felix agreed.

“I think it’s ‘cause he survived the war, too,” Annette said. “But anyway, Markus stepped down, and I’m told Bianca slapped divorce papers in his hand the moment he stepped in their door. First woman to do it in Edelgard’s Adrestia, too.”

“All’s well that ends well?” Felix asked.

Annette made a face. “Something like that.” She braced herself for whatever came next. “Anyway, there you have it. The von Engel affair. And why they call me the Whore of Dominic when they think I’m out of earshot.”

Felix took a long, silent draught of tea, his face betraying nothing. Annette couldn’t look at him any longer, busying herself with finishing her tea and beginning to collect her things. She would just take Alessia and go; she wouldn’t bother Felix any longer.

He deserved so much better than the war, than his eye patch and mercenary scars, than to startle every time someone touched him, than dead friends and a head full of nightmares.

And he deserved _so much_ better than explaining Crests in Edelgard’s postwar hellscape to a child who had never asked for any of it and whose mother was too afraid to do it herself.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he finally said.

Annette blinked, startled for a third time. “What?”

“Markus being married,” Felix said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was the older one,” Annette murmured. “I was supposed to know.”

“You trusted him to tell you the truth,” Felix said. “That’s what you’re _supposed_ to do. If he never said anything about it, no one else did, and he didn’t wear a ring, how the fuck were you supposed to know? Magic?”

Annette snorted, and the wetness around her eyes started up again. “That’s what I said, but the Adrestians didn’t believe that anyone could _possibly_ not know that.”

“The Adrestians have their heads up their collective ass,” Felix said. “They couldn’t name you the Lords of Faerghus or Provinces of the Alliance even when they existed; they’re too busy thinking the world revolves around them.”

“Lucky for them,” Annette said blackly, “now it does.”

The Faerghusi exiles clinked their cooling teacups, and between them, silence grew.

And for a moment, the world was still. But then Felix asked, “Did you know Leonie and I were together, for a while?”

Annette tried to hide her surprise. “No, I didn’t. I heard you ran with her mercenaries, though?”

“Our mercenaries.” Felix took another sip of tea. “They were ‘hers’ only because I didn’t want my name on it to draw fire. The Cost Effectives, out of Deirdru-or-whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called-now.”

“Cute name?” Annette offered, unsure where Felix was going with this.

“Yeah, Leonie thought so.” He drew in a deep breath, and it was only because she was watching him now that Annette saw the shudder in his chest as he did. “And looking back, I’m pretty sure we only fell in because we were both _there,_ y’know? It was shortly after we lost the Gautier Rebellion. I’d lost everything; she’d lost everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Annette offered. _I wish I’d found you then._

Felix’s good eye bored into her. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do shit.”

_And that’s exactly the problem._ “I, um,” Annette finally managed. “I don’t really know why you’re telling me this?”

Even ordinarily, she wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, but especially not today. Not when seeing her daughter in Fraldarius Blue felt like the most natural thing in the world. In another version of their lives, would Alessia have _been_ his daughter? Would she have grown up chasing siblings and Sylvain’s and Ingrid’s and Mercedes’ children through the halls of Fraldarius Manor? Would she have inherited Felix’s Crest instead, his talent for swords, his sharp tongue, his black hair? Or would she have had no Crest at all, in a world where she would have desperately needed one?

Would she have still even been Alessia? The idea that she wouldn’t have hurt her heart more than Annette could name.

Felix sighed. “I don’t know, I just wanted to tell you you’re not the only one who’s ever fucked up, I guess.”

“Oh, no.” Suddenly, Annette understood. “Why’d you break up?”

“Got into a fight while trying to have sex, believe it or not.”

Annette spat tea across the courtyard again, though mercifully it was no longer piping hot. She pressed the loaned handkerchief to her mouth, asking, “That’s a _terrible_ time to break up! What is wrong with you?”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to!” Felix defended. “I was just trying to slow things down, make her take her time for once in her goddess-damned life, and suddenly everything came flying out of both of us. All the ‘you never did this’ and the ‘you always do that’ shit they tell you not to argue with. And as we’re yelling, I just realized, Leonie…”

The pause stretched between them, and in it, Felix seemed to be debating something.

“Leonie what?” Annette asked softly. She wanted to reach out to him, but was afraid of breaking him if she did.

(Or worse, breaking herself.)

Felix drew in a deep breath, and then let it out in a frosty stream towards the Goddess. “As we’re yelling,” he said, so quietly Annette strained to hear him, “I just realized, Leonie…”

As though summoned by the rest of the day’s bad luck, Annette caught sight of a certain brunette songstress rounding the corner of the dorm entrance. She cursed internally at the woman’s timing.

“Felix!” Dorothea called, interrupting whatever Felix had been about to say. “I’m glad I caught you, I—” She pulled up short at their impromptu tea party, taking one look at both of their faces and changing course immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Annette glanced helplessly to Felix, who mercifully recovered faster than she. “Just got some bad news today, is all.”

He stepped in as flawlessly to cover her weak side as he ever had on the battlefield.

“Oh,” said Dorothea, her whole demeanor shifting, “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so,” Annette said, tears springing to her eyes without her really knowing why. “But that’s kind of you to offer.”

“Did you _need_ something, Dorothea?” Felix asked, more sharply than Annette wondered if he’d meant to.

Dorothea held out a small envelope, marked with Felix’s name. “Have you heard the rumor that you won our little bet from the training ground the other day?”

“Yeah, I heard you made me take you out to dinner. Which, by the way, _is not a condition I would have bet for._ ”

Dorothea laughed. “Oh _no,_ darling, you didn’t take _me.”_ She glanced, very pointedly, to Annette.

Annette’s brow furrowed, but Felix caught right on. “You’re just setting up more rumors,” he accused, jabbing at Dorothea with the envelope.

“I am _not!”_ She put a mock-offended hand to her heart. “I merely gave myself the _opportunity_ to set up more later.”

“Dorothea,” Annette tried weakly, “you really don’t need to—”

“Oh yes, I do!” Dorothea interrupted. “I’m happy to babysit Alessia for the evening—which, if you don’t trust me with, I totally understand, you will _not_ hurt my feelings—but _I_ need something that will distract this place and _you two_ could use a night out.”

Felix scratched at the back of his neck, and Annette about wanted to melt into the floor. She was dying. This had to be the Eternal Flames.

Dorothea’s eyes widened. “Dear Goddess, I’m interrupting. I’m _so_ sorry, I’ll go right now!”

“ _Dorothea!”_ Felix barked at her retreating back, but she didn't turn.

For a moment, both the swordsman and the wind mage stood there in stunned silence, but then they caught each other’s eye and burst into self-conscious laughter together.

“I hate her so much,” Felix said, hiding how red his face had become beneath one gloved hand.

“I think she’s kinda fun,” Annette said, trying to rub the tears out of her eyes that stubbornly kept coming. “But, Felix?”

“Hmm?” He fixed his good eye on her, but he didn’t stop hiding his face.

Annette drew in a deep breath. “What were you going to say?”

“Just… Leonie wasn’t the woman I wanted there. And when I told her so, she stopped yelling and told me that was a relief, because I wasn't the man she wanted there, either.”

Annette’s jaw dropped. _“Ouch.”_

Felix shrugged. “Honestly, we had a good laugh about it while we found our clothes. Still friends to this day.”

Annette’s brow furrowed as something else occurred to her. “Then why’d you leave?”

“Two reasons,” Felix said. “One is why I have that scar across my back, but the other is that, even if I don’t love her like, well, a lover, I still care about Leonie. Just got too hard to watch her destroy herself.” He frowned. “Also I got tired of picking up her bar tabs.”

Annette went to take a sip of her tea, only to discover it had gone fully cold.

“Anyway, since _apparently_ I have reservations...” He shot an angry look in the direction Dorothea had retreated. “...I guess we’re getting dinner some time?” 

Annette laughed through her tears. She really wasn’t sure how Felix always managed that. “Sure. Sounds like fun. Where are they?”

He fought the envelope for a moment and then announced, “Err, the Hyacinth?”

“Oh!” Annette was taken aback. “Dorothea has good taste.”

“That sounds like Dorothea has _expensive_ taste,” Felix muttered. “But I guess she is paying.”

Annette laughed—a real, belly laugh—and Felix smiled—tiredly, but he smiled “I hate to break up the party, but would you kindly wake Alessia and get her off my bed? Keeping up with her is exhausting.”

“Oh, Goddess, I’m sorry.” Annette was moving towards Felix’s room—only to be stopped by a firm arm that caught her across the waist.

“What are you crying for?” he asked, softly. 

He was _much_ too close; Annette had to look away. “Honestly, I don’t know. Today has been a lot.”

“Here,” he said.

It was the handkerchief he’d offered before, snatched from wherever on the wall she’d left it. She gave him a watery smile and allowed herself to be led back to his room, doing her best to dry her eyes and mop up her makeup on the way. She’d have to wash this and give it back to him later; it was filthy.

Alessia was still snoozing peacefully beneath Felix’s cloak, and Annette hated to wake her almost as much as she hated to leave, herself. Felix was… far kinder than she remembered from the Officers’ Academy or the war, though still somehow just as prickly.

She sat down on the edge of Felix’s bed, nudging Alessia with gentle hands and quiet murmurs.

Alessia finally popped one grey eye open. “...Mama?”

“Hi, little one,” Annette said softly, reaching out to smooth her daughter’s hair away from her face. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Uncle Felix said _you_ were scared.” Alessia was sitting up now, blanket-cloak forgotten. “But I told him you’re not scared of anything.”

“That’s not true at all,” Annette said with a little laugh, “I’m scared of a lot of things.”

Alessia deflated. “So there really _are_ people who don’t like me because of my Crest?”

Annette nodded, her smile sad. “Yes, there are.”

Alessia stared at her hands, worrying the hem of her cardigan. 

“That’s why we get strong, little wolf.” Felix came to rest beside Annette, leaning against the foot of his bed. “So that we can protect ourselves and those we care about.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t enrolled you in magic classes, Alessia,” Annette added. “I was so scared that your Crest would manifest, I kept you from them. That was wrong.”

Despite everything, her eyes lit up. “Does that mean I can start learning magic like you and Auntie Mercie, Mama?”

“And me,” Felix said, mock-offended.

Annette nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

Alessia gave an excited squeak and launched herself at her mother. Annette just barely kept herself upright, and Felix was instantly at her back, his calloused hands keeping her steady.

“I wanna get strong!” Alessia said. “So that I can protect you, and Auntie Mercie, and Uncle Felix!”

“It’s a lot of work to learn magic,” Annette warned her, finding her voice from where it lay deep in her throat. “You’ll have to study hard.”

“I can do that!” Alessia promised.

“Well,” said Felix, a touch of amusement beneath his exhaustion, “what do you know? Looks like she's your kid after all, Annette.”

Annette could only laugh, even as Alessia pressed Felix for an explanation. Maybe everything _could_ still be okay, even if Alessia had the Crest of Dominic. 

After all, Dominic Mages were some of the strongest of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today sucks, post fic.
> 
> (I hope all y'all are safe , out there)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faustine hates going home, and Hubert hates to let good liquor go to waste.

Although she would never dare say it aloud, Faustine von Engel hated going home. 

Beyond the fact that Garreg Mach was where all her friends were and professors were far easier to deal with than parents, the von Engel Estate was not what one would call “restful” by any stretch of the imagination. Her father had become absorbed in his work ever since her mother died, and Markus had never been all that much fun to hang around to begin with. With her older sister off in Enbarr, and the other one married to a minor ex-lord in Northern Adrestia, home had become a lonely, desolate place.

Markus talked Faustine’s ear off the entire ride home, complaining about this student and that imposition from Headmaster von Vestra. Faustine stopped pointing out that they were just the rules after about the third one, and tried to think of literally anything else in between “yeah”s and “mm-hmm”s flung in Markus’ general direction.

She wondered what Ellie and Eberhard were up to, right about now, since they had also gone home for the break. Ellie’s mother had probably criticized Ellie’s choice of riding attire three times already, and Eberhard’s father was probably grilling him on what he’d learned in school this year.

Faustine winced. Thinking about her friends was actually not any more restful than talking to Markus, come to think of it.

He kept up his unending chatter all the way to the Estate, through passing off their horses and greeting the servants, and it wasn’t until Markus was informed that their father wanted them in his office that Faustine found any silence at all.

“And how has school been, Faustine?” asked her lady’s maid as the woman helped her dress, post-bath.

“It’s been fine,” Faustine said. She knew the maid was only asking out of politeness (and a little bit of familiarity), and scrambled for something else to say. “I have a new homeroom professor this year.”

“Oh?” said the maid, inviting an answer but not demanding one. 

She had clearly been in the von Engel household for a long time.

“He fought dad in the war, apparently.” Faustine winced as the woman secured her corset a bit too tight. “And can you loosen that, please?”

“Oh, dear,” said the maid. Though to what, Faustine didn’t know.

As the maid fought her curls into something resembling a proper bun, Faustine noted that she no longer fit comfortably into the clothes she’d left behind. The arm bands were too tight, the skirts too short by a few inches. She hadn’t _thought_ she’d changed much at school, but she vaguely remembered Karina complaining about none of her blouses fitting after a few months of intensive brawler training. 

Maybe that was it?

When she entered the dining hall for dinner that evening, Faustine was surprised to find it devoid of her remaining family. “Am I eating alone?” she asked the servant who happened to be on hand.

“The general and your brother haven't come out of the study yet,” the woman said, nervously twisting a rag in her hands.

General Ironfang had always told everyone in this house—the servants, his children, even his wife—to absolutely not enter his study unless expressly invited. It had only had to happen once (to some unfortunate stable hand with news of an arrival) for everyone else to get the picture.

Faustine still saw the lash-marks across the stableboy’s back in her sleep, sometimes.

“I’ll go get them,” she said. 

“Oh, _would_ you, Faustine?” the woman said. “That would be fantastic.”

“Sure,” said Faustine, already on the move and hiking up her skirts.

The study was on the third floor in the west wing, up several flights of stairs and clear across the manor. The servants never came up here anymore except for the occasional dusting; it had mostly been her mother’s wing. Seeing it cold and lonely hurt a lot more than Faustine had been prepared for, but she pressed on.

As she rounded the corner to her father’s study, Faustine heard his raised voice drifting from behind the door:

“Well, if Bianca hadn’t thrown her fit when she found out, we wouldn’t be in this mess, now _would_ we?”

Faustine froze.

“I told Bianca what she needed to know!” Markus argued.

“Clearly not,” said Ironfang, “or she wouldn't have thrown you out!”

There was a pause and some shuffling noises that Faustine couldn’t place. She barely noticed she had crept forward until her ear was pressed against the door.

“We need that girl, Markus,” Ironfang was saying. “ _What_ is taking so long?”

Markus sighed, exasperated. “Dominic has found herself a guard dog. Old Fraldarius.”

A well of fire bloomed in Faustine’s chest. _Are they talking about Alessia?_

“Of course it is.” Faustine could just picture her father rubbing his fingers into his temples. “What a mess.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Markus promised. “I just need a little more time.”

“It’s not me you need to convince,” Ironfang said, and it occurred to Faustine that his voice was getting closer.

She stifled a yelp as she shot backwards and straightened up, just in time for her father to open the double doors. 

He stared at her, brow furrowed. “Faustine? What are you doing here?”

“Dinner’s on,” she said, channeling the political mask every Adrestian perfects before they hit puberty. “The servants asked me to come get you.”

“They _asked?”_ Disgust dripped from Markus’ tongue.

“I _offered,”_ Faustine corrected. “You know they’re scared to come up here.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ironfang, sweeping past his children and ambling down the hall. “Let’s get on with it. I hope they’ve made roast.”

Markus spared an extra, unknowable look for his younger sister, who shot him one right back.

-)

“Hey,” said Felix, “this is for you.”

He unceremoniously thumped a bottle of whiskey onto Hubert’s desk, and the headmaster gave a small start. 

“I beg your pardon?” Hubert glanced up at him over his reading glasses.

“It’s a thanks,” Felix said, shuffling and avoiding eye contact, “for what you did for Annette.”

Hubert racked his brains for something he could possibly have done for the reason magic professor recently, and came up empty-handed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow?”

“When Alessia was born,” Felix elaborated.

Hubert was stunned into silence, and removed his reading glasses just to give himself something to do while he composed himself.

“I can assure you,” Hubert finally managed, steepling his hands on his desk, “I have put together many a gift basket for a pregnant or newlywed professor during my time here.”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Felix said, “and you know it.”

Hubert dodged the question for a moment by turning to the whiskey bottle. It was a higher-end brand, one that Felix definitely had not had the night of the winter ball, and likely was not easy to find or purchase with a teacher’s salary.

Warmth spread across Hubert’s chest like butter in a hot skillet. “I… don’t really know what to say. Thank you.”

“Don’t drink it all in one place,” Felix said, and it took a moment for Hubert to realize it was a parting shot. 

He was almost too late.

“Wait,” Hubert said, and Felix stopped, midway through the door. “Shall we crack it open?”

Felix recoiled in surprise. “Now? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“It’s winter break,” Hubert pointed out. “And I can assure you, the paperwork will still be here for me on Monday.”

Felix snorted. “Alright. You got cups somewhere?”

-)

“...And _that’s_ why that was the most embarrassing event in my entire career as Edelgard’s spymaster,” Hubert was saying to Felix as the latter howled with laughter.

The sun was beginning to sink beyond the horizon, and the bottle on his desk was somehow half empty, but Hubert couldn’t remember a more pleasant afternoon in years.

“You guys…” Felix wheezed. “...got outwitted by an _eight-year-old!”_ He continued to laugh as Hubert topped off their glasses. “That’s _funny as shit!”_

“Well don’t go spreading it around,” Hubert said.

Felix’s eyes blew open almost comically wide. “Who would even believe me?”

“Oh, that’s a good point.” Hubert sank back into his chair. “I’ve never thought of that.”

“Yeah, so, don’t worry,” Felix said, “your story about how the Vestra Sorcery Engineers got bested by a literal child is safe with me.”

“Okay, Fraldarius,” Hubert said, a touch argumentative, “ _your turn_ for an embarrassing story from the war.”

“Hey! You _offered_.”

“Certainly, and now _you’re_ paying.”

They stared each other down for a long moment, but Felix evidently wasn't able to maintain it while drunk.

Felix stared at his glass as he racked his brains, defeated. “Once, I walked in on Ingrid and Sylvain making out in the training grounds. It was uncomfortable. I couldn’t look at either of them for a week.”

Hubert heaved a heavy sigh. “If I had a single gold for every time that happened to me with…”

Whatever Hubert had been about to say was cut off as his office door opened. “Hubie, dear, did you forget we were… oh.”

Dorothea pulled up short at the two of them. “What in _Fodlán_ is going on here, and why do you two smell like a distillery?”

“Hello, Dorothea,” Hubert said at the same time Felix said, “Fuck off, Dorothea.”

“Oh, hush.” Dorothea bopped Felix in the back of his head as she strode by. “I got you a date with the girl of your dreams, didn’t I?”

“Ow,” Felix muttered, rubbing the back of his head.

“Hubert,” Dorothea said, stopping beside his desk, “darling. Did you forget we were on for dinner tonight?”

“Of course not.” Hubert checked over his shoulder for the time, and physically startled at the creeping darkness outside. “ _What?_ When did it get so late?”

Dorothea giggled. “I’m guessing some time between the first drink and the third?”

“You’re a bad influence,” Hubert said to Felix, although he laughed as he said it. 

“Hey!” Felix sputtered. “ _You’re_ the one who suggested we open it!”

Dorothea gave a dramatic gasp. “ _Hubert!”_

“I don’t need this from— _whoa!”_

Hubert had stood as he’d begun arguing, but the world lurched, and he was forced to grasp the edge of his desk or fall.

“You’re _drunk!”_ Dorothea accused gleefully. 

“I am most certainly not!” 

“As the lord he used to be _,”_ Felix confirmed, cackling.

“And _you_ aren’t?” Hubert threw back. 

Felix gracefully rose to his feet, put his hands on the back of the couch he’d been sitting on, and flipped himself over it, landing back on his feet directly behind it with a soft thud. 

“Show off,” Hubert muttered. 

Felix grinned, but it was largely a baring of his teeth “Faerghusi.” 

“Oh, this happens every time he drinks,” Dorothea said. “Hubert, you _know_ you’re a lightweight.”

“I am _not,”_ Hubert argued, although the room lurched again and he was forced back to his desk.

“Well, come on, then,” Dorothea said to Felix. “Let’s get Hubert out of here. If we’re getting drunk, we may as well be comfortable.”

“He’s not getting to a bar in this state,” Felix argued, although he already moved to shoulder Hubert’s much taller frame. 

“Hold a moment,” Hubert said. “Who said you were invited, Dorothea?”

“Oh, _I’m_ going to go get dinner,” she said. “And a few more friends. We’ll have a party, since you owe me the evening anyhow, Hubie.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Hubert said at the same time Felix said, “Please, Goddess, _no.”_

“Please, Goddess, _yes._ You’ll like my friends.” The smile that spread across her pretty face was predatory. “I think you’ll like them _very much,_ Felix dear.”

“I met your friends in Deirdru.” Felix paused to haul Hubert to his feet, muttering something about this being Sylvain’s bloody job when the much taller man refused to budge. “I didn't like them then, and I doubt I’ll like them now.”

“Lucky for _you,_ these aren’t my Deirdru friends.” Dorothea came around to shoulder Hubert’s other side, and together she and Felix began the slow trudge out of the Headmaster’s office. “They’re more like school chums.”

Hubert snorted from between them, and after some fussing, managed to get an arm around both Dorothea and Felix’s shoulders and hold himself upright. “Are you telling me Petra and Hilda are visiting?”

“Oh, I _wish,”_ Dorothea said. “I miss those two dearly.”

“As do I,” Hubert said. “Bernadetta, too.”

“Bernadetta! Oh, I wish her husband were less of a _shit._ I’d be able to visit her more often.”

“I told her not to marry him,” Hubert said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Told her if it were her father’s doing, I’d take care of him or it, whichever she preferred.”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this, Hubert, but you should’ve just done it.”

“Uhp, stairs,” Felix interrupted as they arrived at them. “C’mon Hubert, you survived the war, you can do some stairs.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Hubert muttered, though he leaned heavily on his friends the whole way up.

“Hey, Dorothea,” Felix finally thought to ask, “where are we going?”

“The Headmaster’s quarters, naturally,” she said around Hubert’s chest, dropping her voice conspiratorially to add, “They _used_ to belong to Archbishop Rhea.”

“Shit,” said Felix. “You’ve moved up in the world, Hubert.”

“It’s actually down, by most accounts.”

“Oh, hush,” Dorothea said, and this time there was no playful undercurrent. “I’m going to go get us dinner. Felix, can you handle him from here?”

“Hold on.” After a moment’s rearranging, Felix had kicked open the door to the headmaster’s suite. “Yup. Go make trouble, or something.”

Dorothea’s playful smile was back. “I always do!”

Hubert patted her back a few times, long since used to the fact that her dresses were frequently backless. “Thanks, Dorothea.”

She smiled, squeezed him back,— “You’d be bored and hungry without me.”—and disappeared back down the stairs.

The moment the door was shut behind them, Felix said, “She’s exhausting.”

Hubert threw a bit of weak fire magic at the wall sconce. “She’s Dorothea.”

With the room partially lit, Felix could now make out a small sitting room and bedroom half-obscured by standing screens. Huge, floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled the entire back wall, some filled with books on history or magic, others with trinkets and instruments whose purpose Felix could only guess.

But other than that, the room largely contained the essentials—and the bare ones, at that.

Felix deposited Hubert on one of the leather couches and set about lighting the other wall sconces. The sudden silence was deafening, in Dorothea’s wake, and so Felix said the first thing that popped into his half-intoxicated head. “So were you really supposed to have dinner with her?”

Hubert sighed, rubbing at his temples with his hand. “Yes, she’s been assisting with the fight against Those Who Slither in the Dark. Well…” He paused. “...She always has been, I suppose. But now she’s _here_ helping with it.”

Felix froze, mid-light. Something in the way Hubert said it was… unlike him. “And you’re… what, upset with that?”

“Oh, _Saints_ , no. I appreciate the help. I simply…” Hubert sighed. “Did we leave the whiskey downstairs?”

Felix chuckled. “Do I need to go get it?”

“No,” Hubert said, getting to his feet much more steadily than he had previously. “It’s just better than what I have up here.”

“You’re drunk already,” Felix pointed out. “Now’s not the time to drink the good shit.”

“And just _what_ is the point of being an adult with disposable income if I’m not drinking ‘the good shit’?” Hubert mimicked Felix’s voice for the requisite words. “I already gave away most of the family fortune; I may as well enjoy what’s left.”

“Least you had it to give away,” Felix said. “Mine was seized.”

_Probably to feed the invading army_ , Felix thought blackly. It still rankled him to this day.

“It wasn’t exactly my preference.” Hubert sighed as he came to rest at a side cabinet. “Now what am I drinking?” He murmured, mostly to himself, as he dropped to a crouch and opened the cabinet doors.

“Edelgard make you?” Felix asked, coming over to the bar cabinet, as well.

“It was _strongly encouraged.”_ Hubert pulled out a few bottles that Felix didn’t recognize, setting them atop the cabinet. “So, effectively, yes. Thankfully I was able to launder it through some of the Vestra Sorcery Engineers and the Mittlefrank Opera Company so that I could at least continue the fight against Twisted.”

“Devious,” lauded Felix. “And what is _that?”_

Hubert paused midway through bringing yet another bottle to the surface, this one slim and largely filled with a pale, yellow liquid. “Limoncello,” he said. “It’s never been my preference, but I hate to waste alcohol—much less a gift.”

Felix held out a curious hand, asking, “Ferdinand or Byleth?”

Hubert was taken aback—comically so, at this level of intoxication. “Byleth. How’d you guess?”

“Had to be someone who knows you well enough to buy you a bottle of expensive liquor as a gift, but not well enough to know which one to get.” Felix unscrewed the cap and gave it a curious sniff. “Honestly, I’m just surprised it isn’t piss.”

Hubert cackled. “Cheerful deduction. Would you care to try it?”

Felix took another curious sniff. “Is it sweet?”

“Not really,” Hubert said. “It’s best as a mixer, but I’m afraid I haven’t champagne.”

This time Felix laughed—well and truly laughed. “Do I _look_ like I drink champagne?”

“Not anymore, but historically, sure.”

Felix rolled his eyes and accepted the glass handed to him. “Now, you’re not getting around it. What were you saying earlier? About Dorothea helping with the Slithery Bastards?”

Hubert choked on the sip he’d just taken, and it took a moment’s coughing (and a few heavy-handed thumps to his back from the swordsmaster) to regain his breath. “I appreciate her help,” Hubert managed.

Felix waited what felt like an eternity for something else to be added to that. When he finally realized nothing was forthcoming, he felt like an idiot both for waiting and not realizing sooner— “You like her.”

“I like most of the Black Eagles Strike Force,” Hubert countered. “And would prefer not to put them in harm’s way.”

“No,” Felix said, feeling vaguely hypocritical and pushing past it, “I mean, want-her-to-have-your-babies, like her.”

Hubert spluttered again. 

“Sorry!” Felix cackled, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I was awkward before I joined a mercenary company, now I’m awkward _and_ crude.”

“I’m sure Sylvain’s ghost is smiling on you,” Hubert managed.

The smile left Felix’s face as he drew in a deep breath and shut his eyes.

“Apologies,” Hubert said after a moment, “I didn't mean for—”

“Hush, I’m channeling my inner Glenn,” Felix interrupted. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and the rest of his sentence tangled itself in its haste to get out of his mouth: “I forgot, I don’t have an inner Glenn; I have an inner Ingrid. Why haven’t you properly asked her to dinner?”

Hubert blinked at a great many things in that sentence, and grasped for the first thing that stuck. “Glenn?

“My older brother. The heir apparent. Ingrid’s fiancé. The youngest Kingsguard knight ever. Don’t change the subject.”

“Heir apparent?” Hubert’s brow furrowed. “Weren’t _you_ the Duke Fraldarius after Rodrigue?”

Felix stared at him for so long a moment, Hubert wondered if something were stuck to his face. 

“Glenn died in the Tragedy of Duscur, Hubert.”

Hubert had never heard Felix’s voice so quiet, nor so hurt. Ordinarily, the swordsman took pains to maintain a stony mask, and had for the entire time Hubert had known him.

Which, Hubert realized with a jolt, was entirely composed of post-Tragedy.

His jaw dropped into a soft ‘oh’ that he quickly covered with a sip of whiskey. “I apologize,” Hubert said, after a moment. “I didn’t know.”

Felix huffed, and took a long sip of limoncello. “Why would you?” He winced, but braced for a second draught. 

Impeccable manners being one of the few things the former House of von Vestra was known for that _didn’t_ cause rumors, Hubert felt the distinct need to cover his faux pas, accidental or not. “The war was particularly harsh on Dorothea,” he said, quietly. “She wants to assist in driving Those Who Slither in the Dark out of the Empire, but I don’t want it to be at the cost of herself.”

Felix’s smile was rueful—and uncomfortably knowing. “Better for it to be you?”

Hubert nodded. “Just so.”

A knock came at the door, and Hubert immediately moved to answer it. “She’s brought Ferdinand and four bottles of wine,” he predicted, “Mark my words.”

But the figure at the door was neither Dorothea nor Ferdinand.

“Von Vestra, sir,” said his oldest Sorcery Engineer, “may I come in? It’s urgent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I do a shot of limoncello while writing this to remember what it tastes like? 
> 
> yes.
> 
> do I recommend that?
> 
> absolutely not.
> 
> also, I'm aware I'm running behind on comments. Please rest assured I will get to all of them!
> 
> in the meantime though, feel free to [come hang out on twitter](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hubert remembers what he fights for.

Hubert stood at his door, staring at the man for a long moment. 

“ _That_ didn’t sound like Dorothea,” Felix muttered from across the way.

The Sorcery Engineer’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”

Hubert sighed and gestured for the man to follow him in. “Report, if you would, Gehrman.”

Gehrman’s brow furrowed further as he studied Felix, drink in hand. “I can, er, come back later, sir? If you’re busy with… well, whatever this is?”

Hubert sighed. “I could not more clearly be throwing a party.”

Felix burst into crackling laughter, startling both Adrestians. “I’ll go see about Dorothea,” he said, patting Hubert’s shoulder. “You do your dark mage nonsense.”

Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose, and once his door shut again, repeated, “ _Report,_ Gehrman”. 

“Sir,” said the sorcery engineer, snapping to attention, “the von Hevring compound has fallen.”

The words stabbed him in the chest, and Hubert physically staggered. “How?”

“We believe their position was compromised by one of their research scientists.”

“Did we not vet every last one of them?” Hubert hissed.

“We certainly did, sir.” Gehrman’s countenance darkened. “However, it wouldn’t be the first time the enemy has worn a friendly face.”

Hubert stilled. The implications of “Tomas” the librarian were not easily forgotten.

“My men are continuing to search and secure the place now,” Gehrman continued. “Von Hevring has not yet been recovered and may yet live, but sir…”

It was very rare that Gehrman faltered. It was one of the reasons he was Hubert’s main field commander. 

“But?” Hubert pressed, unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

Gehrman took a deep breath. “Sir, we've lost von Ordelia.”

Lysithea’s pale, red eyes came, unbidden, to Hubert’s mind. They were as sharp as she was, missing nothing, dissecting you where you stood. Their brilliance had not dimmed in the years since the war, nor had they softened.

“Confirmed?” Hubert asked past the lump in his throat. 

Gehrman nodded, eyes downcast. “I recovered her body myself, sir.”

Hubert was too drunk to process this. He was too drunk to come up with a counter, a plan of attack, or even the words he needed. 

“Who?” Hubert croaked. 

Gehrman looked up. “Those Who Slither in the Dark, sir.”

One thought pulsed in Hubert’s frazzled mind—“Then they must have been close.” He reached for his Spymaster’s mask, taking a deep breath and disguising himself as stone. “Recover what research you can from the compound, and bring it here.”

Gehrman was physically taken aback. “Sir?”

“If Twisted are so concerned with what Linhardt and Lysithea found as to attack us, we may save Marianne yet.”

-) 

Felix and Dorothea immediately caught onto Hubert’s subdued mood when they returned with wine and friends. Felix mercifully turned his attention to getting Ferdinand drunk alongside Annette and Mercedes with some ancient Faerghus drinking game, but Dorothea was not so easily shaken. No matter how often Hubert foisted her off on Shamir, or Felix, or Ferdinand, she would always work her way back around.

It got to the point that Hubert excused himself to find the little mages’ room, and instead found himself on the old Star Terrace.

It had once been Archbishop Rhea’s favorite part of Garreg Mach monastery, or so the stories went. The celestial mosaics and small gardens were about the only restful place Hubert knew of, anymore. Up here in the firmament, there were no sorcery engineers with bad news, no frustrating but well-intentioned friends, no reminders of the war. There was only the winter chill, and the sky.

There was no headmaster von Vestra, just a tired man who wasn’t getting any younger.

Hubert sank against the railing, leaning against his elbows and surveying the monastery. Its peaks and parapets had not changed since he himself was enrolled here, all those years ago, and he was starting to think that perhaps that was the _only_ thing so unmoved.

“A gold piece for your thoughts?” came a quiet voice from behind him.

Hubert turned just in time to see Dorothea lean herself against the railing beside him, elegant even while slouching. “If my thoughts were so easily bought,” Hubert said, “we’d have never outlasted the war.”

Dorothea chuckled. “Fair enough, I suppose. You just look so _concerned.”_

Hubert sighed, wishing he’d brought his drink outside with him, just to give himself time to think. He supposed Dorothea had as much a right to know as the rest of the Black Eagles Strike Force, but it felt strange, delivering the news to anyone besides the Empress, first.

“I received word that Linhardt’s research laboratory was attacked,” Hubert said, quietly. “My men haven’t found him yet, but Lysithea has died.”

Dorothea flinched, and then shut her eyes. Hubert found himself wondering if she shivered from the chill biting through her backless dress, or from something else entirely.

“Do we know why?” she asked after a moment.

“Those Who Slither in the Dark keeping their secrets, presumably,” Hubert said.

Dorothea opened those strikingly green eyes, and met Hubert’s gaze head-on. “I think I hate them.”

“Rest assured, you’re in good company.”

Dorothea leaned against his arm, laying her head somewhere near his shoulder. “So, now what?” 

Hubert would later insist it was simply that he was drunk and she was obviously cold. That was why he rearranged them, so that his arm was around her shoulders and she was nestled into his side. “For now, we let Gehrman and his men do their work,” he said. “After that, I’ll reevaluate with what they find.”

Dorothea hummed, deep in her throat, and then there was silence.

_Has she always been so warm?_ Hubert wondered. He wasn’t sure, nor was he certain if she’d always fit so comfortably beside him.

_You like her,_ Felix had said. _As in, want-her-to-have-your-babies, like her._

Hubert had never genuinely considered the possibility of getting romantically involved with anyone besides Edelgard, but now he couldn’t get it out of his head. Dorothea had asked him once, many years ago, that if Edelgard ordered him to marry, would he? He had told her, of course, if it would benefit their Empress in some way. But still Dorothea had pressed, offering herself as a candidate.

Hubert had always figured she was goading him, as she did many people, especially when the matter was eventually dropped. But then, Dorothea was a hard one to read, all in. A born actress, she could make a person believe all sorts of things about her that simply weren’t true.

He found himself wondering how genuine her question had truly been.

“How did it get this bad, Hubert?” Dorothea murmured, startling him out of his thoughts.

“You know why.”

She toyed with the ends of her hair. “I want to hear your theory.”

Hubert sighed, his breath escaping in frosty puffs. “It’s exactly as Edelgard always said. The Crests are to blame.”

Dorothea’s laugh was gloomy. “Oh, of _course._ How silly of me.” She jokingly bapped herself in the forehead. “Here, I was thinking it was something about love and death.”

“That’s the Opera, Dorothea,” Hubert deadpanned. “You’re thinking of the Opera plot.”

This time her laugh was much more genuine, and Hubert felt something deep in his chest unclench. “Operas are much simpler than reality,” she said. “It all wraps up so neatly in a few acts, and no one _ever_ doesn’t see a death coming.”

“Neatly?” Hubert said. “I distinctly remember plot holes in the last Opera we attended.”

“That was only because you were an _actual_ spymaster, Hubert dear,” Dorothea said. “No one else would have seen a plot hole there.”

“It was poor form,” Hubert said, the air of an old argument unfurling beneath his words. “No spymaster worth his salt would ever leave a door _unlocked_ for some secret tryst; he’d simply give his beloved a _key.”_

“But she was the Duchess,” Dorothea argued, gesturing melodramatically as she spoke. “She couldn't have evidence of their love on her person! What would the Duke say?”

“If the Duke cared for his Duchess in the first place, there would never have been a spymaster sub plot.”

“Oh, but Franco played such an _excellent_ awful Duke.”

“He did,” Hubert conceded. “I’m still mad about that ending.”

Dorothea laughed again, and this time Hubert felt it deep in his bones. “Maybe over the break this summer we can see another Opera and gossip in Edelgard’s box. Maybe see if Bernadetta or Caspar could attend with us.”

“I’d like that,” Hubert said, and found himself meaning it.

Silence settled again, this time much more comfortably. Dorothea further burrowed into his side, bracing herself against the wind with as much of his cloak as she could wrangle.

“Why don’t you just… borrow this?” Hubert said, fiddling with the clasp at his throat.

“Oh, Hubie, I don’t want to…” Abruptly, Dorothea cut herself off when his warm, woolen cloak settled across her shoulders.

Hubert wasn’t a large man—not compared a knight or a brawler—but Dorothea was positively dwarfed by his cloak, the shoulders too broad, the length too long. There was something decidedly cute about the way she wrapped herself in it like a blanket, and Hubert felt the strangest smile settling across his face as she nestled back against him again.

“Thank you,” Dorothea said, earnestly.

“Of course, ‘Thea dear.”

Dorothea put her hands on her hips, undoing all her work bracing against the cold and forcibly removing herself from his side for a moment. “Hubert von Vestra, are you _teasing_ me?”

“Never,” he deadpanned, and she laughed again.

Silence fell again, and this one the most comfortable of all.

“So am I ever going to learn why you and Felix were drunk in your office at three in the afternoon?” Dorothea asked, a teasing note in her voice.

“He brought me a most excellent bottle of whiskey.” A note of wonder had crept into Hubert’s voice. “As a thank you, apparently, for dealing with Markus when Alessia Dominic was born.”

Dorothea’s facial expression softened. “Oh, he is _so_ smitten with Annette.”

“Well, obviously,” Hubert said, “but how could he possibly have known that the truth was outed because of _me?”_

“Mmm,” said Dorothea, “probably one half because Annette figured it out, and one half because Mercedes figured it out, and _told_ Annette. But anyway, I caught Felix chatting with her the other day, when I went to go deliver the counter rumors.” She paused. “Do you know what bad news she could have received?”

“Her daughter has a Crest,” Hubert said. “One of my Engineers noticed it go off while on her way to my office.”

Dorothea let out a sympathetic noise. “Well, better one of ours than Markus, I suppose.”

Hubert grimaced. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to date him to keep an eye on him, could I?”

Dorothea reached up to tap his nose. “Not on your life.”

“It wasn’t really a serious question,” Hubert muttered, turning away.

Dorothea gave a violent shiver, even beneath his cloak, and suddenly his years and years of manners kicked in. “Let’s get you back inside,” Hubert said, relinquishing his hold on her with a surprising amount of regret, “lest you freeze.”

“Perish the thought,” Dorothea laughed. “You’d lose your rumormonger.”

“I’d lose a lot more than that, I think.”

In the darkness of the Star Terrace, he missed the stunned expression on Dorothea’s face.

-)

That night, Hubert dreamt of home.

_“Which do you think, Hubert?” Edelgard asked._

_Hubert’s mind snapped out of assassination plots and mentally responding to correspondence he’d read earlier that day. He looked up to where Edelgard and her seamstress were pouring over swatches of creamy white satin and delicate lace, and found the Empress now looking at him expectantly._

_“I think either would suit you well,” he offered diplomatically._

_“Hubert!” Edelgard protested. “I’m not looking for ‘well,’ I’m looking for ‘fantastic.’”_

_“Trust a man not to understand, dearie,” the seamstress said with a small laugh._

_“I’m afraid wedding dresses aren’t my forte,” Hubert admitted._

_“I need a second opinion of someone I can trust,” Edelgard said. “And I can’t very well bring Byleth.”_

_A lump formed in his throat. “Naturally,” Hubert managed, around it._

_Edelgard sighed and turned back to the swatches of cloth. “I think I prefer this one? Could I see the silhouettes again, though?”_

_He needed out, and he needed to get there as soon as possible. What excuse could he possibly use? He’d forgotten a meeting? (She’d never believe he’d forget_ anything. _) The Sorcery Engineers needed him? (Doubtful she’d believe it, if no one showed up for him.)_

_And then it hit him like a bolt of lightning._

_“My lady,” Hubert said, “Mittelfrank is just down the street. I could see if Dorothea is free to assist you?”_

_“Oh!” Edelgard’s face lit up. “Oh, she would be_ perfect. _Why didn’t we think of that? Yes, please see if she's free—and don’t let her leave rehearsal on my account if she isn’t!”_

_“I shall endeavor to try.” Hubert swept into a low bow and excused himself from his personal hell._

_Outside the air was crisp and clear, fresher somehow than it had been within the seamstress’ shop. Hubert strode past street food vendors and people hurrying here and there. Enbarr had never seemed so alive during the war; it was good to see commerce launching once again._

_The Mittelfrank Opera Company building was a beautiful compilation of glass and stone, its architecture sweeping and elegant. Hubert had been here many a time with Edelgard, both in their youth and as adults, but it was only recently that he’d ever seen the backstage, thanks to Dorothea. There was still Strike Force business to attend to, on occasion, and even the rising prima donna of the Mittelfrank Opera Company was not excused from her wartime duties._

_Hubert slipped through the stagehand door, and immediately, the stage crew recognized him. “Here for Dorothea?” one of them asked._

_At his nod, the man disappeared off through the curtains. “Oi, Dorothea!” he called, and the music pulled up to a grinding halt. “There’s a man here to see you!”_

_“Can you tell him I’m quite busy?” Dorothea asked, amidst giggles from the rest of the cast._

_“It’s the Empress’ dog, so I don’t think so?”_

_Hubert had long since grown immune to his many nicknames, and so it startled him when Dorothea said, sharply, “He has a_ name, _Giovanni, that I suggest you use. Tell him to meet me at my dressing room, please.”_

_“Duty calls,” she added a moment later, and likely to the director._

_Hubert didn’t wait to be informed; he simply slipped down the side hallway to the dressing rooms. He’d met Dorothea here a time or two after a performance, typically with Edelgard, Byleth, and flowers._

_The songstress appeared a few minutes later, dressed in an elegant blue gown, elaborate updo, and face full of makeup outlandish anywhere but the stage. “Hello, Hubie dear,” she said warmly. “The door is unlocked.”_

_“I wasn’t about to just let myself in,” he said, opening the door for her._

_Dorothea immediately seated herself at the mirror and began taking out hairpins. “So, what is it this time? Insurrectionists? The Rebellion? Do I need to throw a salon again?”_

_“I think you’ll find it much easier than any of that.” Hubert folded his arms across his chest and tried not to feel woefully out of place. “Edelgard is requesting assistance in wedding dress shopping.”_

_Dorothea froze midway through taking out a pin. “Oh,_ Hubie.”

_She started to turn to look at him, but he wouldn't allow it. “Here,” Hubert said, darting forward, “allow me to assist you.”_

_Dorothea settled her hands in her lap as Hubert began expertly working the pins from her hair. He was uncomfortably reminded of the thousand times he’d helped Edelgard out of her horned war crown, but there was nothing for it, now._

_“Hubert,” Dorothea said, much more quietly than was her wont, “you should have told me. I would have suggested she and I make a day out of it, get lunch, try out different dressmakers’ shops. You could have been far...” She shuddered. “...far from it.”_

_“To be quite honest, Dorothea,” Hubert said, laying pins in a neat line on her vanity as he slid them from her hair, “all of the planning for this wedding has been awful. I didn’t think this could possibly be much worse than the caterers, the florists, the musicians, the…”_

_He cut himself off when_ _Dorothea reached up and squeezed his hand._

_“Let me help you,” she said. “Please. It doesn't have to be this hard.”_

_Hubert suddenly found he couldn't look at her. “I am the Minister of the Imperial Household. It’s my duty.”_

_“You’re also a man, and a hurt one,” Dorothea said, more gently than perhaps anyone had ever spoken to him. “So how about this. You take care of the florist, and the caterers, and the musicians, and_ I _will handle both of the Imperial wedding gowns.”_

_Hubert remained silent for an unnatural length of time, his knuckles turning white on the back of Dorothea’s chair. He did not catch when she turned to face him, did not realize she was moving to stand until it was too late. She slipped her arms around his waist and pulled him into a hug that understood far too much, and it was at that moment that Hubert von Vestra finally broke._

_Tears dotted the bright blue fabric on Dorothea’s shoulder, and Hubert squeezed back with what felt like everything left in him._

_“Is this what I won her war for?”_

_It spilled out of him before he could think to stop it._

_“Hush,” said Dorothea, softly, gently. “I’ve got you.”_

_Half an hour later, when Hubert returned to the seamstress’ shop with Dorothea in tow, the actress’ expert makeup skills ensured Edelgard never realized that her stoic minister could cry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me and my brand new stimulus check laptop are happy to bring you more fic! :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Faustine decides whom to be.

The first teacher’s meeting of the second semester was, as ever, entirely too early for Felix to be dealing with Ferdinand’s enthusiastic nonsense. He’d scarcely even begun to drink his morning coffee.

“As we begin the second semester,” Ferdinand said, “please remind students that uniform jackets and vests are to be buttoned at all times and that no, the rules about boys and girls in each other’s dorms have not changed.”

Felix snorted into his coffee mug, and he wasn’t the only one. 

“Also now that we’ve reached the second semester,” Ferdinand continued, “it’s time to begin preparing for certification exams and the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.”

Felix recoiled. They still called it that?

“As ever, we ask that you extend your office hours this month to assist with exam prep,” Ferdinand said, “and kindly prepare your students for the concept that yes, they will be sleeping in tents for parts of the trip to Gronder Field. Any questions?”

“I have one,” said Markus. “Well, more of a comment really.”

Felix watched as Annette and Ignatz both put their heads in their hands, and a few more professors stifled groans. He tuned Markus out as the man blathered on about how really, they ought to rename the annual mock battle, and turned his thoughts to his students.

Some knew exactly what they wanted to certify in. Ellie had requested Bishop even before the break, and Karina was just about only suited for Brigand. Siegmund was going to take the exam for Wyvern Rider, and Owen was most likely going to take the Sniper one. 

But then there were the ones who didn’t know what they wanted to do. Eberhard was torn between paladin and warlock, and Christel waffled between swordmaster and Fortress Knight. Both boys could easily certify in either class, and would have no trouble should they pass. 

And then there was Faustine, who had absolutely no idea what she wanted to certify in at all.

It was she who concerned him. Since returning from break, Faustine had seemed more skittish than usual, more wary. Felix had asked her once or twice if everything was alright, but she always brushed him off. He was beginning to think he either ought to call in the cavalry and have Annette or Mercedes approach her, or resign himself to the fact that she simply didn’t wish to tell her professors whatever it was that was bothering her.

The irony that he was worrying over Ironfang’s youngest daughter was not lost on him.

-)

That afternoon, Felix forged through his academic advisement appointments with tested patience. 

“...I just don’t know, professor,” Owen said for the hundredth time that session. “I feel like sniper is easier, but paladin to eventually certify for bow knight could be a better way to go?”

“It’s about whether you want to be able to pin a fly to a tree from a hundred yards,” Felix said, for the two hundredth time, “or whether you want to be able to run in, get off some clean shots, and run out.”

“Will we really even need these, though?” Owen asked. “I mean, who even is there to wage war against?”

Felix had to stop himself from saying Those Who Slither in the Dark. “There’s always Dagda and Brigid, out for revenge, or Sreng up north, or even Almyra. And no end of internal conflicts, border skirmishes, and the like. You’ll see plenty of combat, I’m sure.”

Owen made a face and wrinkled his nose just as a knock came from the classroom door. 

“Looks like that’s your time,” Felix said. “Give it some more thought, and if you’re still hemming and hawing by Friday, for the Goddess’ sake, flip a damn coin.”

Owen laughed as he gathered up his books. “I don’t care what they say about you, professor. You’re really funny.”

Felix half wanted to ask “What do they say about me?” but figured ultimately it was better not to know.

Owen let himself out the main doors, and Faustine slipped in through the gap made by his passing. She clutched her books to her chest like a life preserver, nervous in approaching Felix’s desk despite having class five times a day in this room.

“Good afternoon, Faustine,” Felix said. She was his last appointment for the day. He could do this.

“Good afternoon, Professor Fraldarius,” she said, seating herself across his desk form him.

Felix had never been much for preamble and he wasn’t about to start now. “So, have you given any more thought as to what you’ll certify in?”

Faustine sighed, and cast her eyes down to her boots. “I’m sorry, Professor. But I have no idea.”

He could not do this.

Felix pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to snap. “Faustine. You have talent in just about any martial weapon, passable riding and flying skills, and can even throw a spell or two, at this point. You can, quite literally, take the exam for anything.”

“That’s just the problem!” Faustine burst out.

Felix froze. That was not like Faustine. 

He removed his hand from his face and leveled her with his good eye. “I beg pardon?”

Faustine quickly looked back down at her boots. “I’m sorry, Professor Fraldarius. I shouldn’t have shouted.”

Felix nudged the teapot towards her. Some of his students would take a cup of tea during their advisements, and some wouldn’t, but he always had it around. He supposed Byleth Eisner’s tea parties had rubbed off on even him.

“Have some tea, Faustine.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m not thirsty, Professor.”

“You’ll feel less awkward with something in your hands.”

Faustine’s head snapped up. “I don’t… um.” She reached for the teapot. “Actually, never mind.” 

Felix stifled a smirk as she fixed herself a cup of weak bergamot tea, dumping in a few sugar cubes and splash of milk before taking a long, drawn-out sip.

“So we’ve established,” Felix said after she’d resituated herself, “that you can do anything. But what is it that you want to do?”

Faustine stared into her teacup. “Father wants me to certify in Wyvern Knight.”

“An excellent choice,” Felix said, loathe though he was to agree with Ironfang on anything. “You have the constitution and the lancework. You’d just need to brush up on your wyvern maneuvering. Very attainable. But.”

Faustine blinked a few times. “But?” She asked after a moment.

“I didn’t ask what Ironfang wants you to do,” Felix said. “I asked what you want to do.”

Faustine let out an exhausted breath. “To be honest, professor, I don’t want to be so far from a fight—or, honestly, so high off the ground.”

“So wyverns and pegasi are out,” Felix said. “What else?”

Faustine took a bracing swig of tea. “I’ve thought about swordmaster. A lot, actually.”

“Another excellent choice. You’ve become quite adept with a blade this year.” 

Faustine made a face. “You’re not just saying that because you were one, are you?”

Felix barked a hoarse laugh,. “Oh, I didn’t certify in swordmaster. I certified in assassin.”

Faustine spat the sip of tea she’d just taken back into her cup. “I beg your pardon? Assassin?”

Felix shrugged. “I wanted to be fast enough to kill before they killed me. Also I liked bows.”

Faustine was taken aback. “But, professor…” She glanced over her shoulder, as if to confirm they were alone in the cavernous classroom. “Weren’t you… you know. Supposed to be a duke?”

Felix cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that got to do with it?”

Faustine’s eyes widened, as though Felix couldn’t possibly be this dense. “Did your father approve of that?”

Felix snorted. “Of course not. I spent a whole week after the exams composing a letter to him letting him know I picked assassin over swordmaster. My friends insisted on reading it over four times before I sent it, just to be safe.”

Felix remembered, faintly, Ingrid’s quill scratching out this turn of phrase and that, begging him to please not infuriate his father any further than he was already going to be. Sylvain had cackled from atop Felix’s bed, telling him he wished he’d had the guts to stand up to his father and pick any class that didn’t require a lance certification, just to piss him off.

Faustine leaned forward, ever so slightly, in her seat. “And?”

“He wasn’t thrilled,” Felix deadpanned. “I ignored several letters back, too. And then one day he just… showed up at Garreg Mach, dragged me to dinner by the ears.”

Faustine giggled. It was hard to picture her dour professor as a teenager being disciplined. Absently, she wondered how intimidating his father, the Duke Fraldarius, must have been, for her professor to turn out as he had. 

“He asked me what in Seiros’ name had gotten into me,” Felix recalled. “He was a Holy Knight, you see. Couldn’t comprehend why his last living son could possibly prefer to work in the shadows.”

Faustine was bolted to her seat. “What did you tell him?”

Felix made a face. “Let me preface that by saying one, I was not an easy child, two, my older brother died in the Tragedy of Duscur long before you were even born, and three, he was the youngest Kingsguard knight just about ever.”

Faustine blinked at the new information. “Okay.”

Felix sighed, and shut his good eye. “I told him knighthood hadn’t saved Glenn, and it wouldn’t save me, either. If training in assassins’ work made me that much harder to knight, well then, capital.”

Faustine’s jaw dropped, just a little. “You said that to your father? The duke?”

“Sure did,” Felix said. “Wasn’t the worst thing I said to him, either.” His expression grew melancholy. “But that’s how it goes, I guess.”

Dimly, Faustine remembered hearing that Duke Fraldarius the Elder had died at some point during the unification war in some lofty battle that Deputy Headmaster von Aegir had participated in. She almost wanted to ask Professor Fraldarius what he knew about that battle, but the look on his face stopped her. 

Ordinarily, he was nearly impossible to read, what with his expressions half-hidden beneath a beard and an eyepatch. But at this moment, it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Faustine said, quietly.

“Don’t let anyone catch you saying that.” Felix’s good eye snapped open, fixed Faustine in a pointed stare. “Not ever. Not to me.”

“What good is an education if I never use it?” Faustine asked.

It was something that raked at her, more and more these days. The further through the Academy she went, the more questions she had. The history books didn’t make sense, their tales crisscrossing and backtracking. She knew the truth had to lie somewhere between what she’d been taught, and what Professor Fraldarius knew.

She very nearly asked him.

“Faustine.” Felix drew in a somewhat shaky breath. “Don’t empathize with me, or Annette, or Mercedes. You don’t want your loyalty questioned by the Shadows of the Blood Eagle’s Empire. You have a bright future ahead of you—and fuck Ironfang, he’s wrong. You were never meant for Wyvern Rider.”

“No,” Faustine agreed, “I think I know exactly what I should be, now.”

-)

“Assassin?” Markus shouted. “Really, Faustine? Whatever happened to Wyvern Rider?”

“I don’t want to be three miles away from battle,” Faustine said coolly, not looking up from her notes. “I want to be in it.”

“This is that Fraldarius’ doing, isn’t it?” Markus hissed. “I knew you should have requested to set up your advisement appointment with me.”

Faustine smacked her thigh in frustration. “I came to the conclusion myself, Markus.”

Markus appeared not to have heard her. “He was a filthy assassin in the war, too. Do you have any idea how many generals we lost to that bastard?”

“Clearly enough to give you pause in harassing Professor Dominic,” Faustine snapped. 

Across the library table, Markus froze, and Faustine realized she may have just stabbed too far.

“That man is a Faerghus dog,” Markus said, lowly. “Von Vestra denied father’s request to transfer you out of his class from sheer spite.”

“He denied it because I didn't want to leave,” Faustine said hotly. “I’ve learned more this year from him than I ever did from my professors who had never seen battle.”

“Oh, don’t think I haven't seen you signing up for Victor’s archery seminars, and Dominic’s black magic salons,” Markus snarled. “You’re treading dangerous ground, sister dear.”

“I’m learning,” Faustine argued. “Isn’t that what father sent me here for?”

A crack sounded across the empty library, and Faustine’s face lit itself on fire.

“Don’t be smart.” Markus righted the rings on his hand. “Don’t forget why you’re here.”

Blood tricked from Faustine’s nose, and she glared at her older brother as she let it run. “Because you don’t have the backbone to take father’s mantle?”

Fury rose in Markus’ face, and Faustine braced herself for a second smack.

“What’s going on in here?” came a voice from the door.

Markus and Faustine both tuned to see Professor Dominic in the door. She was dressed for evening patrols in her heavy fur cloak and with a lantern smoldering in her hand. 

“It’s past midnight,” Annette continued, now entering the library. “What are you doing still studying at this hour, Faustine?”

Faustine did not miss how the woman ignored her brother.

“I was just telling my little sister the same,” Markus said smoothly.

“You’re bleeding, dear.” A warning flashed in Annette’s eyes, and Faustine knew in that moment, that if she said where her injury came from, Markus might very well burn alive, right here in the library.

“It’s the dry air this time of year,” Faustine said. “I get nosebleeds all the time.”

“The sauna is good for helping with that, believe it or not,” Annette said. “Something about the humidity.”

“It’s time you got to bed, Faustine,” Markus said sternly.

Faustine shot him a sharp look. “I’ll go in a minute.”

“I can walk with her to the students’ dorms, Markus,” Annette said. “You can go on without us.”

Even Markus knew better than to fight with the look in Annette Dominic’s ordinarily soft blue eyes. “How kind of you,” he muttered, and swept from the library.

Faustine hastily gathered her books, shoving them into her rucksack and rummaging about for a handkerchief. 

“Here.”

Faustine turned to see Annette holding out a blue handkerchief to her, her eyes deeply kind. “Thank you,” Faustine mumbled, taking the cloth and holding it to her nose.

She shouldered her bag and fell into step with the reason professor through the quiet, darkened halls of the Officers’ Academy. Annette was even shorter than Ellie was, and so Faustine felt sort of ungainly beside he, like she was made of ill-crafted stone

“You know,” Annette said softly as they began passing by offices, “I was just like you, when I was here in school.”

Faustine blinked. “You were?”

Annette nodded. “The old librarian was constantly shooing me out of the library after midnight. Professor Manuela told me—several times, actually—that I really needed to sleep more. Professor Byleth told me to relax before I strained myself.”

Faustine paused. “The Empress-Consort was a professor here?”

Annette’s brow furrowed. “Is that news to you?”

Faustine gave a small laugh. “I mean, yeah, a little. I thought the Empress and the Empress-Consort met during the war.”

“No,” said Annette, quietly. “Byleth was Edelgard’s teacher, here at the Academy. Mine too, for a few classes.”

Faustine wondered what else she didn’t know about her own nation.

“But anyway,” Annette added, sounding much more like her cheerful self, “my point is, there’s a time and place for everything—and, do as I say, not as I do.”

Faustine laughed, only this time she sort of felt like crying.

When they came to a door that Faustine moved to open just a hair too late, Annette paused and looked to her. “Oh! Are you alright?”

Faustine wasn’t sure when she’d started crying, nor when Professor Dominic hugged her, but all she knew was, once both started, she couldn’t stop either. It was as though a dam broke, somewhere deep in her soul, and no amount of stiff upper lipping was going to make it seal itself again.

“Here, in here,” Annette said quietly, pulling Faustine into her office. “Let me make you some tea.”

“I’m okay,” Faustine tried, blowing her nose in the handkerchief she’d have to wash to return, anyway. “Really, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother,” Annette said firmly, rustling up a tea set and some water. “You are the furthest thing from a bother.”

For the second time that day, Faustine found herself with a teacup shoved at her from a Faerghusi professor. But unlike Felix, Annette merely sat beside her on the couch, rubbing soothing circles into her back as Faustine cried like she hadn’t in years.

Like she hadn’t, since her mother died.

“Hush now,” Annette soothed. “You’re safe in my office as long as you like, I promise.”

It felt like an eternity before Faustine calmed down, and dby then her tea had gone cold. Annette replaced it was a warm one before Faustine even thought to ask.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Annette asked quietly. “I’m happy to listen.”

Faustine’s insides felt completely torn. She knew what she was ‘supposed’ to do. She was supposed to be a dutiful daughter, marry whomever she was told, certify in whatever she was told, and graduate the Officers’ Academy basically just to be able to talk strategy with her theoretical future husband.

But she wanted so much more than that, it burned in her chest.

“I want to certify in assassin,” Faustine finally managed. “Markus is furious, and my father will be, too, when he hears.”

“That’s a brave decision.” Annette took a small sip of her own tea. “And not an easy one to come to. Did you know Professor Fraldarius also certified in assassin, when he was a student?”

“Yeah,” said Faustine, blowing her nose in the disgusting handkerchief. “He told me earlier, when I had my advising appointment.”

Annette leaned forward conspiratorially to add, “Did he also tell you his father was less-than-thrilled?”

A giggle burst up through Faustine’s body like a bubble rising to the surface of a lake. “Yeah, he told me that, too. Said he wasn't an easy child.”

Annette burst into warm, soft laughter that warmed the room and made Faustine feel like she were wrapped in the softest blanket. “That might be putting it a tad mildly.”

Faustine gave a watery smile. “I figured.”

“Now, your father will either come around, or he won’t,” Annette said. “You need to be ready for either eventuality.”

“I think he will,” Faustine said. “Just… not quickly.”

“Fathers can be like that,” Annette agreed, and Faustine thought she sounded sad. “Is there anything else bothering you?”

Faustine stared into a teacup for what felt like the millionth time that day. “I… don’t know about Eberhard, anymore.”

Annette’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? You two have been dating since you were first years, right?”

Faustine nodded. “My father likes his family, says they’re good Adrestian stock, whatever that means.”

Annette winced. “Fathers, unfortunately, can be like that, too.”

“And the maids at home say he’s a smart match and all,” Faustine continued, “and Ellie won’t shut up about how handsome he is. But more and more I just keep thinking, ‘if he’s so handsome, why don’t you date him?’”

“That… doesn't sound like something a girl would typically think about her boyfriend,” Annette said tactfully.

“I know.” Faustine nodded miserably. “He’s just… I don’t know. He used to be kind and thoughtful, and now he’s more… mean.”

Annette’s brows came down hard. “You don’t ever have to date someone who’s mean to you. And you can tell Eberhard von Schmdit that I said that.”

“Not like that!” Faustine hastened to add. “He’s not mean to me. I just meant, he was more like Professor Victor last year. And earlier this year he was willing to give Professor Fraldarius a chance even though he…” Faustine pulled up short.

“Even though he fought against Adrestia in the war?” Annette asked.

“Yeah.” Faustine deflated. “I don’t understand why everyone is so harsh on you and Professors Fraldarius, Victor, and von Martritz. You just… fought for your homes, same as my father and Eberhard’s did. Why is that wrong?”

Annette’s smile was sad. “Because we lost, Faustine.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Faustine said, and Annette laughed. “But yeah, Eberhard used to be much nicer and now he’s just… I don’t know. Harsher? He’s starting to sound a lot more like my dad or Markus, when he talks about politics, or classes, or…”

“Us,” Annette finished, not unkindly.

Faustine sighed. “Yeah.”

“It sounds like you need to do some thinking about your relationship with Eberhard,” Annette said, “and whether or not you’re both willing to continue putting in the effort to make it work.”

Faustine glanced up to Professor Dominic, with her soft blue eyes and kind smile, and had to fight the urge to tell her everything she’d heard over winter break. That her father and Markus were plotting something involving her daughter, and that she really needed to be wary. But Faustine didn’t want to repay the woman’s kindness with anxiety and an utter lack of evidence. So she resolved to tell Professor Fraldarius the next chance she got. 

He would know what to do, right?

“Because rest assured,” Annette continued, taking Faustine’s silence for something else entirely, “if you both don’t want to put in the effort, than no amount that you put in is going to matter. And that’s true of all relationships, not just romantic ones.”

“That’s sort of comforting,” Faustine said. “In an awful kind of way.”

Annette’s smile was sad. “I know you what you mean. The word you’re looking for is closure. It brings a certain amount of closure, to know that it has nothing to do with whether or not you’re enough, on your own.”

Faustine stayed there talking to Professor Dominic until her chest stopped heaving and her eyes stopped leaking and breathing wasn’t so difficult anymore.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hubert is called away, and walls come down.

“So, Enbarr, huh?” Felix asked, leaning against the wall beside Hubert’s bookshelves. 

“Yes,” Hubert confirmed, throwing a few more bits of clothing into a well-loved leather travel bag. “Apparently, I’m wanted back home.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “So close to the exams? Surely she knows that’s our busy season.”

“She most certainly does.” Hubert began collecting toiletries from his dresser. 

“So then why do you sound apprehensive?”

Ordinarily, Felix’s battle-eye was a welcome asset to just about anything. It had saved countless lives on the battlefield, and spared his employers countless headaches. However, at the moment, Hubert wished the man were anywhere but here, and preferably not dissecting _him_.

He was beginning to understand how Sylvain must have felt, every time Felix had harassed him about something in school.

Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to imagine it’s urgent, if she’s calling me now. But what I can’t fathom is what it could possibly _be.”_

“She’s pregnant,” Felix deadpanned.

Hubert about threw his travel bag at him. “I should hope not. I think that might kill her, at this point.”

“So her Crest ends too, huh?” Felix mused. 

It hadn’t occurred to Hubert until that very moment, and the force of it knocked the wind out of him.

“Yes,” he managed after a moment. “I suppose it does.”

“I hear an ‘unless’ under there.”

Hubert turned to Felix, dread building beneath his sternum. “Unless that’s what she has Twisted researching.”

A chill ran across the headmaster’s suite, and Felix drew his furs more tightly to him.

“That would explain the Crest Stone separate from the Lance of Ruin,” Felix muttered. “And why they’d have to wrangle so many Crest beasts.” He grimaced. “Failed experiments.”

Hubert shut his eyes to the weight of it. “If Shamir returns before I do, please tell her not to do anything rash in the interim.”

Felix snorted. “Should I give her a kiss from you, too?” 

“If you like,” Hubert countered, throwing the last of his things into the bag.

Felix’s laugh was hoarse, and it had rapidly grown familiar.

“I do apologize for the delay on it, but I _will_ see about getting Alessia her own room,” Hubert promised. “When I get back, I’ll meet with Annette to see about where to place it.”

“Thanks.” Even Felix’s grin was guarded. “Kid’s too old to be sleeping in a box with her mama, and I figure it’s as good a birthday present as any.”

“I quite agree.” Hubert shouldered his bag. “Frankly, I think a good night’s sleep would do wonders for Annette’s mental state.”

“I _know_.” Felix made an annoyed noise, and then clapped Hubert’s shoulder. “Anyway, try not to get yourself hanged while you’re in the capital, eh?”

“Hardly,” Hubert said. “Dorothea would be so incredibly put out, _she’d_ haunt _me.”_

-)

Faustine was deep in her archery notes when Professor Dominic approached her in the empty mess hall. 

“Faustine? Do you have a moment?”

The girl’s head snapped up. “Yes, Professor Dominic?”

“I’m going to be going into town tonight,” Annette said. “Are you free to keep an eye on Alessia?”

“Ooo,” Ellie inputted before Faustine had a chance to speak, “are you going with Professor Fraldarius?”

Annette cocked her head to study the younger mage. “And how did you hear _that?_ Professor Arnault?”

Ellie made an affirmative noise, nodding profusely.

Annette muttered something under her breath that Faustine was pretty sure was an old Faerghus curse. 

“Ellie and I can watch her,” Faustine said hurriedly. “In fact, we’d be happy to.”

Annette’s face broke into a kind, if tired, smile. “Thank you. I know it’s getting close to exams, so we’ll bring you back something fun from town.”

Ellie immediately said, “Oh, you don’t need to do that!”

“Really, professor,” Faustine added, “we’re happy to watch her!”

But Annette only shook her head. “I insist.”

-)

“That was the most delicious meal I think I’ve had in years.” Annette’s stomach rumbled appreciatively, as if to punctuate the sentence.

Felix snorted. “You definitely appreciate actual cooking more, once you’ve had to skewer and grill whatever you find for a few years.”

Dorothea’s reservations at the Hyacinth had turned out to be worth it, even for how flashy the place was and how simpering the waitstaff. Felix found it much easier to relax back in the open air of the night market; they were much more like his people, here.

Annette had fretted all through dinner about various things—she was, after all, Annette—but chief among them was the fact that Alessia’s ninth birthday was on the horizon, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what to get her.

“Why not a magic primer?” Felix had asked.

“Oooh, I’d get her that anyway,” Annette had argued. “That’s not a gift, it’s a lazy mother.”

Which was why they now found themselves in the Garreg Mach Town night market. It reminded Felix a bit of the Fhirdiad Castle Town night market, and he felt a pang of nostalgia so fierce, it felt almost like he’d been stabbed in the chest. Annette happily bustled from shop to stall, enthused about this bit and that bauble, but so far her only purchases had been a thank-you bag of sweets and canister of tea for Ellie and Faustine.

Felix marveled at the fact that, had it been Ingrid or Leonie frittering away in indecision like this, he would have lost his patience hours ago. He would probably have already tucked himself away in a tavern somewhere, three beers deep, or back in the training ground with a splintered training sword.

But Annette—well, Annette was different. He found himself too distracted by the faces she made at the prices, or the way her hips moved when she walked, or her laugh when she found something particularly amusing to lose his patience.

He was also very aware that the dress she’d worn this evening clung to her like water.

Very. _Very._ Aware.

“She’s getting a little old for toys,” Annette murmured as they passed by yet another stall. “What does one get a child too old for toys?”

“Swords,” Felix said.

Annette gave a spluttering laugh. “Maybe in _your_ family.”

“You asked!”

Annette harrumphed. “I was hoping for a helpful answer.”

“You wound me.”

Annette giggled again, and continued her external thought monologue. “Although she isn’t _too_ too old for toys, I suppose. I’m just not sure a doll would really get played with, at this point.” Dismay danced across her face. “Oooh, what do you think?”

“Daggers?”

Annette burst into laughter, to the point that they had to pull up to a halt while she caught her breath. She leaned into Felix to hold herself steady, and he tried not to think about how well the curve of her waist fit into his hands.

“Why,” she gasped, “because it’s a tiny sword?”

Felix shrugged, refusing to acknowledge his rising blush. “Well, what did _you_ do when you were nine, since apparently what I was doing is right out?”

“I don’t even remember,” Annette said. “I suppose was doing all of the usual things expected of tiny Dominic noblewomen—embroidery, harpsichord, axe training, etiquette, riding lessons…”

It occurred to both Felix and Annette at the same time, and they both burst out, “ _Books!”_

With renewed enthusiasm, Annette grabbed Felix’s hand and tugged. “Let’s find the bookseller!”

He allowed himself to be dragged along, and internally cursed the fact that he was always wearing gloves.

The bookseller’s stall was piled high with books from all across Edelgard’s united Fodlàn—though, naturally, that left much to be desired. There were children’s accounts of the war, focused on their Empress who would become practically legend. There were sanitized accounts of the history of Fodlàn, novels for a myriad reading levels, stories of knights, dragons, and wizards who were all mysteriously Enbarri. There was even a stack of opera librettos, the craft apparently flourishing in the last fifteen years.

Felix nearly missed when Annette uncovered a familiar book, he was so busy drowning in a sense of loss and blind fury.

“ _Felix,”_ she breathed. “Look at this.”

Felix gave a spluttering laugh. Of all the tales that could have survived the war and Edelgard’s postwar purges, it was, somehow, _The Sword of Kyphon_ that had remained. 

“You’re a descendant, aren’t you?” Annette asked, so quietly that Felix had to lean into her to hear. “Of Kyphon?”

He nodded, distantly. “He had the Crest of Fraldarius, yeah.” He felt Annette’s eyes on him, and felt compelled to add, “His sword hung in my father’s study.”

The old bookseller’s voice snapped them both out of ancient Faerghus. “Ah, I see you two are connoisseurs of the arts.”

“How much for this one?” Annette asked, trying and failing to keep hope from her voice.

The bookseller named a price that was truly absurd, for a book that Ingrid had worn through three copies of before they’d even reached the Officers’ Academy.

Annette’s voice came out strangled. “Surely that’s a bit excessive?” 

“By all rights, this book should not exist,” the bookseller said smoothly. “It is a priceless reminder of home, is it not?”

Felix and Annette both winced, and the bookseller’s smile spread. 

“The price stands,” he said. “I also sell book _jackets_ , if you’re so inclined.”

With naked grief on her face, Annette set the book back down and went to search the other end of the stall. Felix mourned the loss of her warmth, almost as much of that of his homeland.

“I’ll take it, you bastard,” Felix growled at the bookseller. “ _And_ a cover.”

The bookseller beamed. “A pleasure doing business with you, sir Faerghus.”

“Fraldarius,” Felix muttered as he dug around his furs for his wallet.

He missed the bookseller’s shocked expression, for by the time he looked back up, wallet in hand, the man’s face had been schooled back to a casual neutrality.

Purchase in hand, Felix rounded the corner of the stall, over to where Annette was fretfully digging through yet more books. “Oh, she’s too young for these opera librettos. Maybe a traveler's journal of Brigid? It’s at least… not Enbarr...”

“Here,” Felix interrupted, thumping the book into her arms. “You forgot this.”

Annette’s eyes widened four sizes as she clutched the brown-paper-and-twine-wrapped package to her heart. “Felix, you _didn’t.”_

“If it weren't going to Alessia this month, it would just be going to ale and whetstones.”

“This was _far_ too much money!”

He shrugged, uncomfortable in her scrutiny. “Don’t worry about it, ‘Nette, seriously. Alessia is a good— _oof!”_

Annette threw her arms around him in a hug so fierce, Felix felt his spine crack. He froze for a long moment—too long a moment—before hesitantly putting his arms around her, too.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the furs at his chest. “Thank you, _thank you.”_

Felix’s brain began to short out when he caught the tiny diamonds glittering in the corners of his eyes. _Shit,_ he hadn’t meant to make her cry. He just wanted Alessia to grow up knowing that her heritage was something to be proud of.

That Kyphon was someone to be proud of.

“I hope you know I’m still getting her a dagger,” Felix mumbled.

Annette burst into spluttering laughter, wiping at her eyes as she let go. Again, Felix mourned the loss of her warmth, even as his anxiety was relieved of duty at the sound of her laughter. He was starting to think the cold had, in fact, nothing to do with it.

“You’re not giving her this?”

Felix shook his head, folding his arms across his chest as if to trap the last of her warmth there. “You are.”

Annette wiped at her eyes again, leaving streaks of eye makeup across her white gloves. “Well, come on, then. Let’s find the weapons dealer.”

This time, it was Felix who slipped his hand into Annette’s as they began to move. (And unbeknownst to him, she, too, was cursing the fact that she typically wore gloves.)

“Now where was…” Annette began, only to be silenced by two well-dressed young women striding by.

“That’s her,” the one stage whispered to the other. “The Whore of Dominic. Found herself a new man, I see.”

Annette pulled up to a grinding halt, but they weren’t finished. “I wonder whose husband _he_ is?” the other one asked.

Trembling, Annette pulled her hand away from him, and took off through the crowd at a quick clip.

_“Annette!”_ Felix called after her, but she didn't turn her head.

He growled, low in his throat, and the two women walking by startled. He turned a murderous glare on them, and the one nearest him stumbled into her friend.

“It’s pronounced,” Felix snarled, “ _baroness.”_

And he took off after Annette through the crowd.

For a mage, she moved quickly through the swelling masses of people. Felix, an assassin, was long since used to working in public, but the fact that Annette had already gained yardage on him told Felix this wasn’t the first time Annette had quickly disengaged from a public space.

His heart burst with rage and grief.

“Annette!” he called again, and this time she slowed her pace, just a hair.

It was only another moment or two before Felix caught up with her, and one look at her face told him two things:

First, that she needed to get out of the public eye, at once.

Second, that she had resumed crying and her eye makeup was no longer salvageable.

“C’mere,” Felix murmured, drawing Annette into a side alley between a few taverns.

Annette was still clutching the disguised _Sword of Kyphon_ to her chest with both arms; it was a barrier between them when Felix drew her to his chest again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Annette babbled. “We were having such a nice night, and then...” She hiccupped. “...Then…”

“Hush,” Felix soothed. As in all things, it came out harsher than intended.

“You shouldn’t be seen with me,” Annette continued, sounding as wrecked as Felix’s insides felt. “They’re just going to talk about you.”

Abruptly, Felix let go of her. Annette found herself stunned breathless by his sudden retreat, but the hurt in her chest was quickly silenced by a pair of gloved hands catching her face and lifting it to his.

The intensity of his gaze was almost frightening.

“Annette Fantine Dominic,” he said, his voice a cross between a growl and a rumble, “do I look like I give a shit?”

And then he was kissing her.

He was before her, beside her, and all around her. The scent of Almyran pine needle tea, sword polish, and old leather enveloped her, and Annette found herself reaching out to hold him there before her brain caught up to her mouth.

She kissed him back with everything left in her, and anything else melted against him. When his tongue, warm and rough, pressed against her lips, she welcomed him in, and suddenly there was so much between them, too many layers, too many things unsaid.

Felix pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. “Let’s get you back, hmm?”

Annette laughed, and she felt lighter than she had in months, perhaps years. She gasped, somewhat honestly, somewhat playfully, at the naked offer. “ _Felix!”_

His eyebrows lifted in response.

“You villain,” Annette murmured, wiping at her eyes one last time and pulling him along with her, out of the alley and into the moonlight.

-)

The instant Felix’s door shut behind them, he was back on her. His blood was roiling hot and thick in his veins, and he felt a bit like he might explode if he had to let go of her a moment longer.

“Off with these,” Annette pulled back to mutter, tugging at one of his gloves. 

Felix put their lips back together as he tugged his stupid leather gloves off, and the instant they were free, his hands found their way to her face. She was so, so soft, and so, _so_ warm. His rough callouses caught on her freckles as he swept away the remnants of her tears and her eye makeup, and a sigh escaped from her mouth into his.

Felix lost his last tether to reality when her gloveless hands threaded into his hair a moment later.

Annette pulled away again as she worked at his hair tie. She stuck her tongue out as she focused, and Felix suddenly wanted it back in his mouth, _now._ “I always wondered,” she murmured, “what your hair felt like.”

“You could’ve asked.” His voice was low and hoarse, like he’d been shouting.

Annette’s giggle was breathless. “How would I even start that conversation? ‘Hey, can I braid your hair? I’ve only wanted to touch you since the academy.’”

His heart stopped as his hair fell away from its ponytail and around their faces. “You have?”

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it then.” Annette’s smile was shy, but genuine. “Sorry.”

Next came their cloaks, his heavy mantle and her much lighter one. Annette’s small, dexterous hands made much easier work of his throat clasp than his made of hers, but that might just have been because she was sitting in his lap, now. It was an effort to think of anything besides kissing her, to put his hands anywhere that wasn’t her waist, her hips, her _anything_.

His heart caught in his throat when Annette reached for the buttons on his shirt.

“Why the fuck didn’t we do this twenty years ago?” he managed to get out.

“Do you think I would have been this _forward_ twenty years ago?” Annette gave his shoulder a playful smack.

“Maybe not,” Felix muttered, putting his face in the crook of her neck and drinking in the sweet smell of her skin. “But I could have offered you a dukedom, then. We could have been together even before the war.”

Annette gasped when he bit down, lightly. “ _F-Felix!”_

He pulled back, just far enough to look at her. “Was that a good ‘Felix’ or a bad ‘Felix?’ I want to learn.”

Annette was so stunned, her voice was off in the rafters. What could she say, where could she begin? She could only stare at him, wide-eyed and utterly, hopelessly in love.

For oh, that was all this could be.

Felix kissed her again, fiercely. His lips were far softer than the rest of him, Annette marveled, his sharp tongue suddenly honey-sweet. A warm haze was building above her, and around them, and a slow, rolling warmth was making its way north from her core.

And then the bastard starting trailing kisses down her neck again, and Annette let out her most embarrassing squeak yet.

She buried her face in his neck. “You’re a _villain,_ Felix. An absolute scoundrel.”

“Got it,” he drawled, and she could _feel_ his smile against her cheek. “Good Felix.”

And suddenly it was his life’s work to leave red marks all the way up her neck.

“I’m going to have to teach class, with those!”

“Ah, my mistake.” She could feel his grin on her neck, now, as his hands reached for her collar.

“That isn’t how this dress works! Here.” Annette guided his hands to where her dress buttoned up the back. “Work on those.”

Felix’s brow furrowed as he began fiddling with the buttons at her back. “How do you _do_ this every morning?” 

Annette laughed. “I don’t. This was a special occasion.”

He suddenly stopped, and pulled back far enough to look at her, truly look at her. “It… was?”

Annette smiled again. He looked so awestruck, so charming, so very much unlike himself that she had to kiss him, simply _had_ to. She pressed her lips against his, much more slowly than he had been, and drew lazy circles across his back that made him shiver in her arms. She felt as her dress began to fall away from her neck and shoulders, felt as his warm hands spread across the skin he exposed.

“Of course it was,” Annette said a moment later. “It isn’t every day I have dinner at the Hyacinth with a handsome swordmaster.”

“I am _literally_ already under you,” Felix said, that same uncomprehendingly awestruck expression on his face. “You don’t need to butter me up any more.”

“I’m not!” Annette swore. “It’s true!”

A shit-eating grin spread across his face, and at once, he was the Felix she had known all along. “So if I tell you there’s a stunning wind mage in my lap, how would… ah, I _knew_ that blush had to travel.”

His hand gave up on her remaining buttons for a moment, and instead traced the blush down her throat, into her exposed décolletage, stopping just before where she _really_ wanted his hands to go. He was shaking, just a little, like he was nervous, or maybe simply disbelieving. Annette brought her hand up to guide his, intertwining their fingers for a moment, and tried to give an encouraging smile.

“Holy shit, ‘Nette,” he muttered, not really to her. “Why was I so _stupid?”_

“You were a teenage boy.” She laughed. “It happens.”

“Not during the war.” He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses anywhere he could reach skin. “Not when it could have mattered.”

“Hush.” She echoed him from earlier, though much, much softer. “You’re here now.”

He glanced up to her, and although they didn’t know it, their hearts burst together, entwined. “ _We’re_ here, now,” he agreed.

Annette smiled so brightly, it almost hurt to look at. He settled back in as she moved around him, but nearly missed when she started tugging at his eyepatch.

“Whoa, hey,” Felix snapped, the warmth of the moment before gone. “Don’t…” He let go of her to hold the cloth over his eye. “Don’t touch that.”

“Felix,” Annette coaxed, “I want to _see_ you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “Not this.”

“Do you think you won’t find battle scars on me, the further we go?” 

“It’s not that,” Felix muttered. “Goddess knows, I have plenty of those. It’s…” 

He couldn’t face it. Couldn’t voice it.

Slowly, tenderly, Annette brushed his hair from his face, so that she was looking him directly in his good eye. The gentleness and care he saw there was almost frightening.

“I don’t care if it looks like Dimitri’s scar,” she murmured. “Really, it’s okay. You’re you.”

_You’re you._

_You’re you._

It echoed.

Felix drew in a shaky breath, and looked down to where she sat astride him, her skirt hiked up to her thighs. Creamy skin called to him there, if he could just allow her in.

Although it went against his every instinct, he let go, and pulled the eyepatch away from his ruined eye.

Branching lightning burns stretched from nearly the bridge of his nose to his ear, ordinarily hidden beneath his hair and the eyepatch. Annette recalled, from the academy and the war, that the intensity of his gaze had burned, then. She was left with a nameless hurt now, that one of those sharp, amber eyes was glazed over, unseeing.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to those scars.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “for trusting me.”

His hands tightened against her thighs, and neither of them said much for a while.

-)

When the candles burned low, they nestled beneath his blankets like mated wolves in the snow. Annette was slumped comfortably against Felix’s bare chest, and he held her there, like she was the most precious thing in the world. For once, his expression was relaxed and content, no trace of bitterness to him at all, and Annette's face hurt from smiling so much.

“Where is this one from?” she asked, running her fingers across a particularly nasty scar that ran from his collarbone to his sternum, on the opposite side. She had found it more than once, earlier.

“The Battle of Spirits’ Fen.” His voice was a rumble beneath her ear, and Annette savored it. “I told you about that one.”

“And this?” She moved to a much shorter one, just above his hipbone.

“Lance wound from a mission with the Cost Effectives.” Felix sighed. “I _told_ Leonie I don’t like fighting on horseback, but she just said, ‘you’re from Faerghus, you’ll be _fine.’_ ”

Annette laughed softly as she traced yet another one, this one on his thumb. “And this one?”

“Dimitri,” Felix said, with such irritation that Annette laughed again. “It was when we found out he had the Blaiddyd crest, actually. We were four years old and fighting over some wooden toy; it snapped in his hands and stabbed me.”

“Oh, _no.”_ Even her dismay was soft and unhurried, here beneath the shield of his blankets.

“He was inconsolable for weeks,” Felix recalled. “Until my hand healed. Or Glenn knocked some sense into him; I can’t remember which.”

She began to trace another, this one on his bicep, but Felix surprised her by reaching out and finding the one on her hip. His hands were fitted perfectly to her hipbones; no wonder he’d found it.

“Where did this one come from?” he asked.

Annette sighed. “One if the skirmishes in Dominic territory, between the attack just before graduation and when the war started back up in earnest. My uncle was beside himself when I came back with it; I was forbidden from riding out with our armies for months.”

_And then Dominic fell,_ they both left unsaid.

“What was the point of sending you to the Officers’ Academy, if not to teach you how to lead an army?” Felix muttered.

“To find a husband,” Annette said. “But I had my own reasons.”

“Finding your father,” Felix said, softly.

Annette’s smile was sad. “I suppose Alessia and I have that in common.”

The reminder of her daughter was a bucket of cold water over their warm cocoon.

“I should go get her,” Annette said, though she was loathe to remove herself from Felix’s side. “It’s getting late, and Faustine and Ellie have exams coming up.”

Felix pressed another soft kiss to her forehead, and then started to move with her. “I’ll come with you. Alessia is going to have to get used to seeing more of me, anyhow.”

“You… want to come with me?” Annette managed, suddenly frozen halfway to a sitting position.

Felix paused beside her, suddenly unsure. “Do… you not want me to?”

“No,” Annette burst out. “I mean, yes? I don’t know; of course I want you to come with me.”

His normally cold expression melted into something much softer as he laughed, and he pressed one last kiss to the crown of her head and told her to sit still.

Annette wasn’t sure if that was what did her in, or if it was when he began flipping bits of her clothing onto the bed beside her as he scrounged about for their things, or if it was the quiet domesticity of his nimble, swordsman’s fingers doing up her buttons again.

Maybe it was all of those things, and maybe it was none of them. But Felix Hugo Fraldarius had burrowed his way completely and utterly into her heart a long time ago, and she suddenly felt the need to find an outrageously expensive bottle of wine for Dorothea Arnault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying my nonsense? Come hang out on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)  
> 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which the Test Begins.

Two weeks after Hubert set out for Enbarr, the morning of the certification exams dawned bright and chilly, in the way of Garreg Mach’s early spring. The second year students gathered in the mess hall to break bread together before shuffling off to their advanced exams, the first years, the same with their basic courses. Some third years were taking master class exams, but most were goofing off and enjoying the free day before the graduation panic set in.

“You will have one hour to complete the written portion,” Felix announced to his class as he strode up the rows of desks. “When you finish, raise your hand and I will come around to collect your test. You will then be excused for the practical portion once I have it in hand up here.” 

He came to rest beside his desk. “Any questions?”

Owen chewed on his quill point. “Is it too late to change certification exams?”

“Far too late,” Felix confirmed as he began passing out exams for the various advanced classes. They were contained in envelopes marked with each student’s name.

“You’ll do just fine,” Ellie assured the class archer, giving him a gentle pat on his shoulder.

In a few minutes, all the exams were out, and the Violet Owls stared up at their professor with eyes as wide as their namesake. 

“Very well. Your test begins...” Felix reached his desk again, and flipped over the large hourglass. "...now.”

-)

It had been a long while since Hubert had been called into Edelgard’s official Office of the Empress. Back when he’d served as the Minister of the Imperial Household (and then whatever they’d named it postwar that sounded less impressive), she typically wanted to talk strategy or politics or whatever else was on her mind over tea in her quarters, or duels in the training ground, or frankly anywhere that wasn't her office.

Hubert wasn’t sure what it meant, her request to meet with him here. He was woefully out of touch with Enbarri politics, and hoped fervently it wouldn't be the death of him.

The door guard nodded to Hubert as he approached, and then rapped twice, hard, on Edelgard’s door. “Empress von Hresvelg,” the guard announced, “Hubert von Vestra here to see you.”

“Have him enter!” she called back a moment later.

As soon as the guard pushed open the door, Hubert understood the need for the office—for there, lounging in a chintz armchair like an overlarge cat, was Linhardt von Hevring.

“Good afternoon, Hubert,” Edelgard said warmly. “I’ve sent for tea, but please, do have a seat.”

“Thank you, milady,” Hubert said. “And hello, Linhardt.”

Linhardt was, perhaps, the only person whom the war _hadn’t_ changed. He looked just as sleepy as he ever had, his green hair shoved back into a bun at the crown of his head, his clothes rumpled and unbecoming of a scholar. 

He also was completely whole and hale, near as Hubert could tell.

“Morning, Hubert,” Linhardt yawned. “Or, what, afternoon, is it?”

Hubert resisted the urge to tell him to sit up, as though the man were an unruly student. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here, Linhardt.”

He yawned yet again, and once more, Hubert resisted the urge to discipline him like a student. “I found myself in the area and thought I should give my annual report, or whatever you’re calling it.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t it a tad early?”

“That’s what I said,” Edelgard agreed. “I was worried for a moment I’d gotten my calendar wrong.”

“Well,” Hubert muttered, “that explains the urgent summons.”

Edelgard made a semi contrite face. “I didn’t want to risk the letter being intercepted with news that Linhardt was here.”

His eyebrows rose. “And why not?”

“It’s the damnedest thing,” Linhardt said airily. “My compound was attacked, a month or so ago.”

Ordinarily, social cues were utterly lost on the white mage, but the way that Linhardt was looking expectantly at him told Hubert that he was expected to play along. 

“I don’t believe my engineers have gotten that tidbit back to me,” Hubert said. 

“Nor me,” Edelgard murmured. “When Linhardt told me that, I had to summon you immediately, though I do sincerely apologize for the undue worry on my behalf.”

“Not the first, nor will it be the last.” Hubert took a seat in the armchair beside Linhardt’s, and faced the empress. 

She sighed. “Well then, Linhardt. Kindly report.”

He sighed, and stretched out like they were merely having afternoon tea on the Empress’ terrace and not discussing a national security breach. “A month ago, or so, my lab was attacked by our Slithery friends.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “You’re certain?”

Linhardt nodded. “Other than you and Lysithea, Hubert, I’ve never seen anyone handle dark magic so adroitly.”

“And where _is_ Lysithea?” Edelgard asked, concern etched into her face. 

Linhardt turned a sleepy eye to his empress. “Dead.”

It hurt Hubert only slightly less the second time, if only because he was braced for it. But he watched in pained horror as Edelgard slumped into the back of her chair.

“ _What?”_ she whispered. 

“They attacked in the night,” Linhardt said. “And honestly, I think they went for her, first.”

“How can this be?” Edelgard pressed her hands to her head as the news washed over her. “I just saw her on my way home from the winter ball. She _can’t_... we were… so close…”

She broke off, burying her face in her hands. 

Despite everything, Hubert still found himself rising, reaching out for Edelgard in the throes of her grief. She tensed when his hand settled on her shoulder, but relaxed a moment later, resting her head against Hubert’s side. 

His heart began to ache, again. 

“That’s the other thing,” Linhardt said. “I think this happened _because_ we were close.”

Edelgard’s head snapped up, mascara ruined.

“We had planned to test whether or not Lysithea’s Crest could be removed later this month.” For the first time in his report, something like grief entered Linhardt’s voice. “We had checked and triple-checked the formulae. They were as close to theoretically perfect as we could humanly make them.”

“Test me, instead,” Edelgard said at once. 

“No, mildly.” Hubert’s reaction was knee-jerk. “There are too many unknowns to risk you just yet.”

“I won’t be testing anyone without my lab,” Linhardt harrumphed. “My research was buried.”

“Tell me what you need,” Edelgard said urgently. “Money, manpower, name it. It’s yours.”

“I _need_ ,'' Linhardt said, as though this conversation were a chore, “to know who sold me out before I can think of returning. I'm not so removed from reality as to think it couldn’t happen again.”

“The enemy has worn friendly faces before,” Hubert murmured, not really to anyone. 

Edelgard zeroed in on it. “What, Hubert?”

“Those Who Slither in the Dark, mildly,” Hubert said, louder. “They have known to masquerade as friends before.”

It echoed in the quiet room like the rolling of a bell. 

“I suppose they have,” Edelgard said. “It wouldn’t be out of the question for one of them to infiltrate your lab and pass information, but the question is, _why_ and _to whom?_ We’re already sharing what we know with them.”

“They don’t wish to share what _they_ know, presumably,” Linhardt said flatly. “How else do they keep their power?”

Edelgard gave a frustrated sigh. “If only we knew what they _want.”_

Hubert refrained from mentioning that she had executed Rhea before they could have asked the former archbishop, and Arundel had somehow vanished off the face of Fodlàn.

“Then maybe we could… I don’t know, bargain with them?” Edelgard continued. 

“I doubt they’d bargain, even if we _did_ know that,” Hubert said. “They’re after something, and for the moment, were useful in getting it. “

“That’s bleak,” Linhardt commented. 

“And probably true.” Edelgard sighed again. “If only Byleth’s care didn’t so heavily rely on them.”

Hubert refrained from mentioning there were ways around that, too. 

“What are our next steps, my lady?” he asked instead. 

Edelgard huffed a sigh. “I was hoping you could help Byleth and I determine that after Linhardt finishes his report.”

Hubert drew in a worn breath. “Of course, Lady Edelgard.”

The rest of Linhardt’s report dragged on for an eternity. 

-)

Byleth has been confined to her rooms so long, they were beginning to take on the stench of illness, regardless of the fact that her malaise wasn’t exactly as such. Edelgard held her wife’s hand as she recounted the bad news, and Hubert busied himself with making tea and inquiring as to whether the Empress-Consort had enough blankets. 

It was as though nothing had changed, and it left a deep emptiness in him.

“Hubert, _please_ stop fretting,” Byleth eventually called over to him. “I’m fine.”

He froze, suspended over a half-filled teacup. “As my lady wishes,” he managed after a moment.

“You’d be better off asking the sun not to set,” Edelgard said with a small smile.

“Someone needs to fret, in this Empire,” Hubert agreed, bringing the tea tray around with him, and taking up the empty chair beside Byleth’s bed. “Now, how shall we proceed?”

Byleth took a look sip of tea before she rearranged her blankets and looked directly to Hubert and Edelgard. “For one, I think we should relieve the Slithers of their duties.”

“In what sense, my lady?” Hubert asked.

But Edelgard immediately understood. “Out of the question.” The air of an old argument unfurled beneath her words. “It was Rhea’s foul magic that powered your Crest Stone; you’re only still alive because of Those Who Slither in the Dark.”

Byleth reached out, and folded Edelgard’s scarred hands with her own. “Clearly Linhardt understands enough to replicate whatever vulneries they’re brewing for me. I can—”

_“No.”_ Edelgard’s voice was a soft, terrified whisper. “I won’t lose you. I don’t care what it takes.”

It wasn’t the first time that Hubert had heard such an argument, but it was the first time he had viewed it as anything besides heartbreaking. Edelgard was willing to throw most everything into the flames for Byleth—her hatred of TWSITD, her empire, her loyal vassal—if it meant she might be well again. But watching her now with that wild, terrified glint in those violet eyes, the only word Hubert could conjure was _pathetic._

She was _pathetic,_ and unwilling to stand up to her bullies for fear of retaliation. As if Linhardt couldn’t keep an eye on the Empress-Consort, and hadn’t been able to for probably half a decade, now. As if working with TWSITD were still their only option, and Hubert and his Sorcery Engineers couldn’t manufacture Agarthan technology. As if all the lives she would sacrifice would still be worth the cost to keep Byleth alive.

As if the world were still as it was, fifteen years ago.

He was keenly aware that she was living in an echo chamber without he or Ferdinand here, but he found that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not after she’d all but forced the former Prime Minister’s son into exile at Garreg Mach, out of fears that having him as an advisor would stink of noble preference. Not after her dearest, most loyal friend had begged her for years to start the war against Those Who Slither in the Dark in earnest. Not after she apparently screened his letter to Dorothea long enough to send Markus in the songstress’ place.

No, it was far too late for Hubert to care. He just hadn’t realized it until this very moment.

“If you would excuse me,” he said, suddenly. “I believe I need some air.”

At once, Edelgard and Byleth stopped arguing, and their hands fell to their sides. “I apologize, Hubert,” Byleth said softly. “You didn’t come to mediate our marital affairs. Let us focus on the task at hand.”

Hubert’s smile was thin. “I shall return shortly.”

Edelgard let him go without a word, and for once, Hubert felt no pain.

-)

The Imperial Palace’s terrace was achingly familiar. Hubert had long since grown accustomed to pacing its length at all hours, keeping watch over the Empress’ city whether she knew him to be there or not.

He was starting to wonder if he was the only one in the damn palace who cared about the city at all, and if he had always been. 

“The guards placed bets, you know,” came a smug voice from somewhere behind him. “About how long you would be in discussion with Edelgard and Byleth before you came storming out.”

“I didn’t storm,” Hubert said.

Linhardt snorted as he fell in step beside Hubert. “A technicality to the winner, I’m sure.”

Hubert sighed. “May I assist you with something, Linhardt?”

“Me? No, I’m quite... ah.” Understanding flickered across his face. “You’re telling me to get on with it. Well, then, I’ve come to deliver the rest of my report.”

Abruptly, Hubert pulled up short. “The rest?”

Linhardt nodded. “Yes, the rest.”

Hubert blinked a few times, uncomprehending. “Is there a reason you didn’t deliver your report in its entirety earlier?”

“Of course there is.” Linhardt leaned closer to add, “you’re the only one who ever got anything done about the Slithers.”

Hubert winced, but Linhardt wasn’t finished: “And also, I’m not unconvinced that our dear Edelgard isn’t compromised.”

Hubert jerked back. _“Edelgard?”_

It couldn’t be.

“Who else would know about my lab, its location, its contents, its people?” Linhardt gave a very put-upon sigh. “I also lied, earlier. We weren’t _preparing_ to remove Lysithea’s second crest; we _already_ removed it. She was convalescing when they struck.”

Hubert caught Linhardt by the front of his robes and glowered down the bridge of his nose. “Are you implying Edelgard has been replaced with one of _them?”_

“Not _now,_ ” Linhardt protested. “She was genuinely distraught when I told her about Lysithea.”

Hubert released him, and Linhardt blinked at the dark mage, annoyed. 

“But the fact remains,” Linhardt continued, “that someone knew to attack us when she was down.”

“You have a mole,” Hubert said flatly.

“Obviously.” Annoyance dripped from Linhardt’s teeth. “The question is, _whom?”_

“Gehrman seems to think it was one of your research scientists,” Hubert said. “It would have been easy enough for Twisted to find one of them to impersonate.”

“Without anything more to go on, I’ll have to fire the entire team,” Linhardt pointed out.

He left unspoken that Hubert would not allow so many loose ends.

“I will see what Gehrman can turn up,” Hubert said. “What will you do in the meantime?”

“Exactly what I told Her Majesty,” Linhardt said. “I’m going to stop by Garreg Mach to compare notes with Hanneman and check on his project.”

_“Project.”_ Hubert laughed, blackly. “I’m going to have to remember that one.”

Linhardt blinked. “I don’t see how that’s funny. It’s a Crest research project no matter how you look at it.”

_Marianne von Edmund is a human being,_ Hubert wanted to say. _She isn’t a research project._

“In a manner,” was the political answer that came out of his mouth, for even the Imperial Palace had eyes and ears that Hubert von Vestra did not control. “Will you tell Her Majesty about Lysithea?”

“I don’t think so,” Linhardt said. “Not yet, anyway. I want to make sure we can replicate the results before I go telling her we can save her life.”

Hubert wanted to argue with him, but honestly, found little reason to. Edelgard was known to rush headlong into things; _he_ was the one who thought things through. And he was so very tired of yanking the Empress back by the proverbial collar.

“Have you made any progress on giving someone a Crest?” Hubert asked, instead.

Linhardt shook his head. “I know it’s possible—obviously—but I haven’t managed to replicate it. I need their research notes.”

“I’m aware,” said Hubert. “You’ve only been saying so for a decade, now.”

They stood there on the windy terrace in silence for a long moment, the white mage and the dark mage of the Black Eagle Strike Force.

“I’ve never been much for condolences,” Hubert said quietly, “but, for what it’s worth, I am sorry for your loss.”

“Just stop,” Linhardt sighed. “Your sincerity is more alarming than your lurking.”

Unbidden, Hubert wondered what Felix would say, in this. What had he said to Annette and Mercedes, about all the Blue Lions lost to the rebellion? How could one apologize for another’s grief while drowning in his own?

“Do you drink, Linhardt?”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which the Eagle Battles the Lion Cubs.

Felix's first Battle of the Eagle and Lion as a professor began exactly as he remembered--with a Faerghus war song.

_Boots on, boys, it’s time to go--_

_The war moon’s risen and the river runs slow._

_Thought they’d catch us by surprise,_

_But we’re red, until we die._

“Isn’t it ‘blue, until we die?’” Annette asked Faustine as the Violet Owls got into position all across Gronder Field.

“I think so,” Faustine said, “but Adrestia is red.”

Annette made a face. It was a testament to her nerves that she hadn’t thought of that sooner, honestly. Felix’s students may have picked up a lot of the old war songs during the past year, but their House Leader wasn’t stupid.

“You probably shouldn't be singing that at all,” Annette said, a touch warningly.

“Why not? It’s a war song.” Faustine batted her eyelashes, the picture of innocence. “This is war.”

Part of Annette wanted to reprimand the girl for using the term so loosely, but another part—a much larger part—was relieved that to her, _this_ was all war would ever mean.

-)

On the hillcrest overlooking the field, Felix observed his class with folded arms. He’d rebuffed Ferdinand’s offer to lead them (“Do I _look_ like a battalion leader?”), and determined Annette would lead the Violet Owls into battle. She called orders swiftly and smoothly, their battle signs flashing across the field.

His kids looked good, out there. Faustine seemed to have grown four times as comfortable with a blade in her hand after deciding which path to take, and Ellie had stopped squeaking every time someone swung at her. Karina had been testing her brand new gauntlets all the way from the monastery, and her stance was relaxed and easy as the three houses spread across the field. Siegmund and Owen sat atop their mounts with comfortable ease, and Eberhard’s well-worn spell tome was already in hand. Christel had fiddled with his rapier on the entire ride here, testing its weight, its balance.

And at their helm, Annette stood, red hair bound up on her head, her old Gremory’s uniform still comfortably snug. Felix grinned to see how well battle (and, to be honest, the uniform) still suited her.

“And why,” came an aggressively Adrestian voice from somewhere behind him, “are they signing that _wretched_ song?”

Felix didn’t so much as twitch as Ironfang came to rest somewhere off to his right. “Bold words for someone in stabbing range,” he said.

He felt, more so than saw, Ironfang’s glare alight on him. “And _how_ , pray tell, did my daughter come to learn a Faerghus war song?”

Felix shrugged. “Same way she learned to stop murmuring, I’d imagine.”

Before Ironfang could respond, a war trumpet sounded from across the way, and entirely too many eyes turned to see Headmaster von Vestra silhouetted against the sky in resplendent black.

It was the first anyone had seen him since his sudden summons to the capital, and he looked like he’d aged most of the last fifteen years in the past few weeks. Felix wondered just what in the hell the Empress had called him back for.

“It is time,” Hubert called across the field. “Honor yourselves and your professors, and show us what you’re made of.”

Faustine’s war cry sounded across the field, followed by Johanna Barr’s from the Iron Cranes’ formation, and Roderick Faas’ from the Black Eagles’.

And then there was chaos.

Violet, grey, and red powderpaint splashed across the battlefield as all three houses smashed into one another. The battlefield was in complete disarray within minutes, and Felix couldn't help but note, grimly, that it was very easy to tell who had seen genuine combat before.

Even dulled practice weapons and powderpaint couldn’t disguise the easy familiarity with which the Black Eagles’ Wyvern Rider Cora swooped down on her fellow students, leaving streaks of red paint across their backs, or the ease with which Christel slashed across chests, legs, arms—anything within reach. His precision would be deadly on a battlefield, and Felix had known that from the first time he dueled the boy. 

He had wondered what had happened to Christel in his young life, to make him so familiar with war.

Others, Felix could see the discipline in their spines, if not the practice. Proper combat was jarring—the fact that the Officers’ Academy no longer sent students on cleanup missions to bandit camps or the edges of border skirmishes was a massive disservice. He had told Hubert so, one night when they were three beers deep, and the mage had agreed with him so vehemently he’d nearly fallen off his barstool. 

_It’s asinine,_ Hubert had said as he righted himself. _Everyone seems to think that, just because we won milady’s war, there’s no one left to fight._

Still others were clearly unnerved, making easy mistakes, being tagged out after three smaller hits or one massive one to the vitals, whichever came first. These were the ones that early skirmishes would have weeded out years ago, and Felix wondered if keeping the kids from battle until their third year had more to do with tuition than anything else.

“I heard my daughter has decided to certify in assassin,” Ironfang said just as the battle was begging to settle in for the long haul.

Felix groaned internally. Here, he’d been enjoying the silence. “She took the test, yes. We’re still grading the results.”

He knew that Faustine had passed, but he wasn’t about to tell Ironfang before he even told the girl herself.

Disgust crept into Ironfang’s tone. “And I don’t suppose _you_ had anything to do with this?” 

For the first time since the old General had come over to his little part of the hill, Felix turned to look at him. “I hear an accusation, in there.”

Ironfang shot him a dirty look. “When Faustine and I last spoke, she was going to certify in wyvern rider.”

“She brought that up,” Felix said. “I told her it was quite doable—she had the constitution, the lancework, she'd just need to brush up on her wyvern maneuverability. But she didn’t want to, and it isn’t my place to force my students into certifications they don’t wish for.”

Ironfang’s eyes narrowed. “I do believe _I_ hear an accusation.”

“Do you?” Felix turned back to the battle. “That’s a shame. We discussed swordmaster, as well, but that didn’t seem to appeal to her as much as—”

There were suddenly hands on his cloak, dragging him up by the collar of his shirt, and he stared down Ironfang’s grey eyes.

Markus’ grey eyes.

_Alessia’s_ grey eyes.

“I would not threaten me, if I were you,” Ironfang said, calmly, lowly, as he cocked his head to study his old rival.

“If I wanted to threaten you,” Felix managed, “I’d just do it.”

“ _Ironfang,”_ snapped a cold voice from across the way. “Put. Him. _Down.”_

There were only two people in the entire Adrestian army that Ironfang had to take orders from—the Empress herself, and Hubert von Vestra.

Felix was unceremoniously dropped, and he stumbled in his haste to straighten back up. A white-gloved hand yanked him back from the cliffside, and he heard Ironfang’s heavy boots stalk off towards the other side of the field.

“Thanks,” Felix muttered, brushing down the front of his cloak as if he could remove Ironfang’s very presence from it.

“Ever happy to assist,” Hubert said. He looked even more haggard up close.

It was much easier to breathe, watching the students fight with Hubert around, instead of Ironfang. They talked strategies and argued tactics, pointed out promising developments, and at one point, as the sun began to sink and only stragglers and the very talented remained, passed his flask back and forth.

As Annette called for torches to be lit, Felix finally acknowledged the bear sitting between them. “So, how was your trip home?”

Hubert winced, and Felix just barely caught it, out of the corner of his good eye. “I’ve certainly had better.”

Fire alit across the battlefield, and Felix’s chest swelled with pride when it illuminated Owen’s narrow frame claiming the ballista. His first shot punched a violet streak across Cora’s wyvern, and she was forced to land and continue the fight on foot.

“Well, that's crippled them,” Felix said approvingly.

He felt eyes on him, and turned to see Hubert doing what passed for his smile. “Do I detect _pride,_ Professor?”

Felix smirked. “Do you hear them singing?”

Hubert’s brow furrowed, and then silence fell between them. 

Below, on Gronder Field, the remaining Violet Owls had resumed their war song:

_Boots on, girls, it’s time to move—_

_The war moon’s risen and it’s time to choose._

_Thought they’d catch us by surprise,_

_But we’re red, until we die._

“Why do I recognize that…?” Hubert muttered, not really to Felix.

The swordsman answered anyway: “Because it’s a war song they’ve apparently picked up from me and changed the words to.”

A memory struck Hubert through the chest like an arrow:

_Edelgard, hair plastered to her face in the pouring rain and teeth bared to the cold._

_Dorothea, soaked through to the bone, eyes alight with furious fire._

_Ferdinand, dismounted once his horse slipped one too many times in the mud, clutching his lance like a child with a stuffed animal._

_Bernadetta, her hair slicked back from her forehead from all the times she’d tried to get it out of her line of sight, arms shaking as she held her bow steady._

_And all around them, that damned Faerghus war song, sung-shouted at the top of the enemy’s lungs:_

_Boots on, boys, it’s time to go--_

_The war moon’s risen and the river runs slow!_

_Thought they’d catch us by surprise,_

_But we’re blue, until we die!_

_Dimitri’s hoarse, battle-mad voice had rung in Hubert’s ears for days._

“You were all singing that,” Hubert said, “at the Second Defense of Garreg Mach.”

“It’s the Blaiddyd battle song,” Felix said, quietly.

Below on Gronder field, Faustine was facing off against Cora, Frederick against Johanna. Even the professors had fallen; it had all come down to this.

“So this emergency trip back home,” Felix tried again, “I wasn’t right, was I?”

For a moment, Hubert appraised him with a question in those strikingly green eyes. Then he broke out into spluttering laughter. “No, the Empress wasn’t pregnant. Mercifully.”

“Thank the Goddess,” Felix muttered. “I don’t think the world could handle a second double-crested bastard.” It clearly occurred to him a moment too late whom he was speaking with, because he added, “No offense.”

“None taken,” said Hubert, and for the first time, he meant it.

He felt Felix’s good eye boring into him, but thankfully at that moment, the battle shifted. “Oh,” added Hubert, “Faustine’s got Cora pinned.”

The girl had gotten under Cora’s guard, and slashed a practice dagger against her throat. Violet powderpaint poured down her front, and the other girl was forced to retire with her “lethal” wound.

Felix gave his own whooping war cry, and though the sound once chilled Hubert to the bone, he merely found himself grateful it was no longer directed at him.

Faustine rounded on Frederick now, forced to switch to his sword after running out of arrows hours ago. Their duel was fast and furious, splaying purple and red paint across the both of them in the rising gloom. It seemed Faustine had finally kicked her bad habit of stutter-stepping into her first attack, and Frederick was clearly on the defensive, unable to match her blistering pace.

And then Felix watched as Faustine pivoted under his guard and stabbed right where his kidneys would be. Violet powderpaint bloomed across his leather armor.

_“CEASE!”_ Hubert roared across the field, and at once, all movement stopped. “The Winners of This Year's Battle of Eagle and Lion are—the Violet Owls!”

Faustine gave a whooping cheer and nearly vaulted over Frederick in her haste to reach her cheering classmates. Felix’s hands shot into the air as he answered the cry, and somewhere, deep in the forests of the field, Annette did, too.

“I suppose Ferdinand and I will be around the campsites to tally kill counts before everyone washes off,” Hubert said. “Have you seen him anywhere?”

“I think he was entertaining Ironfang somewhere near the Iron Cranes’ starting point, last I saw.”

Hubert turned to go, and suddenly, the other eternal question occurred to Felix: “Hey, Hubert?”

The dark mage turned back to face him, waiting.

“Why _is_ it still called the Battle of Eagle and Lion?” Surely the Empress would have renamed the Battle for Faerghus’ independence, after all this time rewriting history?

A strange look came across Hubert’s face. It sort of reminded Felix of the man he’d fought in the war—pained, grim, resolute, maybe a little mad.

“You know,” he said, “it’s the damnedest thing. The first few years I was here, we tried sticking new names onto it. But _every_ year, the students kept calling it the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. Eventually we gave up.”

-)

“You were amazing,” Felix murmured to Annette as she snuggled into his chest much, much later that night. “Did you know you’re amazing?”

“Oh hush,” she giggled, going red to the tips of her ears. “The students will hear you.”

Their budding relationship was about as secret as their Faerghusi blood—which was to say, not much of one. But still, Annette had tried to insist she sleep in her own tent, all the way here and all the way back to Garreg Mach. But even if they weren’t having sex (which, to be fair, was not the most pleasant thing in a war tent), Felix wanted to take advantage of the sheer lack of Alessia-sized interruptions to hold Annette close. He slept better, when she was around.

“The students were _telling_ you that,” Felix argued.

She hit him over the head with her pack, softly, in lieu of a pillow to throw at him. “Egged on by their professor!”

“I told them I’d leave them in good hands.” She felt Felix’s grin as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I was correct.”

Annette gave an overdramatic, put-upon sigh, and fell against him again. As if by some instinct, Felix reached for her, slotted her tightly to him beneath their nest of blankets. It had been ages since she’d had a lover to sleep with in the literal sense. He was warmth; he was comfort.

He was home.

“Felix,” Annette said after a long moment of silence, “can I ask you something?”

“Eh?” he grunted.

Annette laughed softly, but it wasn’t enough to quell her nerves. “You haven’t heard any rumors about us… have you?”

“What, at the monastery?”

Annette nodded, the lump in her throat too thick to speak.

“Yeah,” he said, “but nothing that isn’t true.”

At once, Annette turned to face him. Felix’s hand snapped up to prevent the back of her head from knocking into his jawbone. “Easy, ‘Nette!”

Those soft, blue eyes looked even bigger in the dim starlight of his tent. “What have you heard?” 

Felix blinked at her a few times, and then it hit him— _you shouldn’t be seen with me,_ she’d said. _They'll just talk about you._ “Most of it is somebody or other unwilling to believe I actually, y’know, have human emotions. Apparently I was tied with Hubert for ‘probably has a wyvern for a mother.’”

Annette laughed, softly. “If that’s most, what’s the rest?”

Felix gave an exasperated sigh. “The rest is Dorothea collecting her winnings. She had a _betting pool_ on us; did you know?”

“ _What?!”_ Annette shouted.

Felix winced at the sudden noise. _“Annette!”_

Annette winced at herself. “Sorry. But, what?”

“We just need to start one about when she and Hubert are finally going to get together,” Felix said, conspiracy unfurling beneath his words. “I’m thinking no later than next semester. What say you?”

Annette paused to think back over what she knew of Hubert, and what she knew of Dorothea. “Oh, I think it’ll be much sooner than that. Maybe by the summer solstice?”

“I don’t think even Dorothea is that forward,” Felix said with a small laugh. “And Hubert’s… pretty dense.”

Annette muffled her laughter in Felix’s chest, this time. When her face reappeared a moment later, Felix had to fight the urge to brush her hair away from her face.

And then he remembered that he no longer had to, and smoothed back her bangs as she said, “Hubert’s not dense; I think he’s scared.”

“Don’t think he has a hell of a lot of experience,” Felix said thoughtfully. “He’s mentioned Edelgard’s set him up a time or two, but that’s fallen away as Byleth has grown more ill.”

Annette wrinkled her nose. “I can’t imagine him courting. He’s so _stiff.”_

Felix’s smile fell away. “Honestly, he kind of reminds me of Dimitri, that way.”

“Oh.” Annette’s smile, too, fell. “I never made that connection. But I don’t know, thinking of Dimitri courting seems a lot more like the gallant knight and a lot less like the...”

A pause fell over them.

“You were going to say ‘the assassin,’ weren’t you,” Felix said.

Annette made an apologetic face. “Yes, I was, I’m so— _wait a minute,_ you’re teasing me!”

“Nope,” Felix drawled, and kissed her forehead.

Annette harrumphed and turned away from him, folding her arms across herself. “Fine, sleep on that side.”

“Aww, ‘Nette…”

He caught on fairly quickly, when he reached for her again and she happily snuggled up against him.

“I hope they figure things out,” Annette said, her voice muffled by the blankets as she burrowed beneath them. “I think it would be good for both of them, to know they have someone they can count on.”

“Since when have you been concerned for Hubert von Vestra?” Felix teased, sleep tugging at his vowels.

“Since he became your drinking buddy and Alessia’s backup parent,” Annette said, as though it were obvious. “Also, don’t you remember? All Dorothea wanted, in school, was to marry someone who genuinely cared about her.”

“Oh, I remember,” Felix said flatly. “I was apparently a candidate for a while.”

Annette laughed softly. “You were the handsome heir to a dukedom; she’d be dumb not to try.”

“I guess.”

Her fingers found his, and she laced them together beneath the covers. “But Dorothea was always so kind. It just… makes me sad, that the thing she most feared is staring her in the face.”

“I get it,” Felix said through a yawn. “I’ll bother Hubert about it.”

“Don’t you dare! You’ll only make it worse.”

“My love, you _wound_ me.”

Annette breathed in sharply, and it took her a moment to find her voice. “Felix?”

He didn’t respond.

_“Felix?”_ she whispered again, a little louder in the growing silence.

A quiet snore announced that he’d fallen asleep. Annette twisted in his arms just enough to press a kiss to his jawline. She would bother him about it later, she thought with a tiny thrill. He clearly would be around.

She was not far behind him, in sleep, and their breathing evened out together. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which students are certified, and reminded of the power of a Crest

After the Battle of Eagle and Lion, the students traditionally switched from their winter uniforms to the summer ones. Gone was the sedate black-and-gold, instead replaced by a much lighter khaki. The boys’ jackets were swapped for button-downs, and the girls swapped from heavy winter skirts to much lighter, summer ones. Professors were beginning to have trouble keeping their students on task, and even they themselves were yearning for summer break. The school year was nearing its end, and graduation loomed for the third years. In many ways, all was as it should be.

And yet, Linhardt still lurked in Hanneman’s room and in the dining hall, and Markus von Engel still inserted himself into everyone’s business.

“Eyes _front,_ Violet Owls,” Felix said for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

His students ceased their chatter and at least attempted to face him. Sweat dripped down his brow, despite the fact that Felix had long since been forced to abandon his heavy furs for lighter cloaks and looser shirts. He was simply too much a son of Faerghus’ winters to comfortably endure Garreg Mach’s summers.

“What was I just saying?” Felix asked.

There was some shuffling, and then Ellie Mattingly put her hand up. “Um, you were saying that lances have the advantage against swords, professor.”

Nods came from her classmates.

“Correct,” said Felix. “Now, _why_ is that true?”

Panicked looks washed over his class, but then Faustine said, “Because they have reach?”

“Correct,” Felix said again, nodding to Faustine. “Now, von Schmidt, come about. You’re going to help me demonstrate.”

Eberhard strode forward, expression surly. “Demonstrate what, professor?”

Felix brought the training lance he held to his shoulder. “Exactly why you should be extra careful when facing a lance as a swordsman. Get into _pflug_.”

Eberhard did as ordered, bringing the pommel of his training sword back to his hip and bracing his weight on his heels.

“Now, ordinarily, a sword’s striking range is here.” Felix got into position across from Eberhard. “However, as you can see with this thing…” He brought the lance into striking position. “...that’s far too close.”

He shuffled back a few steps, making sure to keep his footwork correct lest his students pick up bad habits, and then brought the lance around again. “I should be here.”

“But Professor,” Siegmund called, “how are we supposed to counter at that range?”

“Levin sword,” Felix grunted. 

A few of his students laughed.

“In seriousness though,” Felix continued, “you treat it the same way you would another swordsman. Von Schmidt, as I’ve taught you.”

Felix brought the lance around and Eberhard brought his sword up to striking range. Felix moved to strike at half speed. Just a demonstration, only a demonstration.

And then a flash of light burned the Fraldarius crest into his good eye, and Eberhard shrieked in pain.

“Shit,” swore Felix, tossing his practice lance to the side and closing the distance between him and his student. “Von Schmidt, how do you feel?”

“What the hell was that?” Eberhard managed brokenly between breaths sucked in through clenched teeth.

“That,” said Felix grimly, “was my Crest.” 

He had warned them all, at the beginning of the year. The Fraldarius Crest was known to make weapon strikes harder, and he couldn’t necessarily control when it activated. He would do his best, but they needed to remain vigilant whenever sparring with him or any other Crest bearer. He’d shown them the signs; they knew what to look for.

But it had never activated in class, until today.

“That was a Crest?” Faustine asked, softly.

“One of them,” Felix grunted. He coaxed Eberhard’s arm away from his body, and began probing it with firm fingers.

Eberhard howled when his thumb found a particularly sore spot, and Felix announced, “Broken. Mattingly, come about.”

Ellie broke away from the class, healing magic stirring in her hands. “Um, professor, shouldn’t we have Professor Manuela look at this?”

“She will, in a moment,” Felix said. “Kindly stop the bleeding.”

As Ellie cast heal on their poor black mage, Felix glanced to the rest of the Violet Owls. They were staring at him in equal parts disbelief, awe, and horror. 

“That was _insane_ ,” Owen murmured.

Christel elbowed him in the ribs. “He can’t control when it does that.”

“True, but that doesn't make Eberhard’s arm any less broken.” Felix released a tired sigh. “You are all dismissed; I’ll get him to the infirmary.”

“Professor…?” Karina ventured.

“You are _dismissed,”_ Felix repeated in a tone that tolled like a funeral bell.

As the Violet Owls put away their training weapons and began collecting their things, Faustine came over to her boyfriend. “Are you okay?”

“Of course not,” Eberhard snarled. “The professor just _broke my arm.”_

“It wasn’t on purpose!” It wasn't Faustine who spoke, but Ellie. “You know he wouldn't do that.”

“He’s a Faerghus dog,” Eberhard muttered, glowering at Felix’s back. “Sure, he would.”

“Eberhard, I know you’re in pain,” Faustine said, making an effort not to snap, “but Professor Fraldarius isn’t a monster just because your dad says so.”

Something roiled in Eberhard’s eyes. “And does _your dad_ know you think that?”

Faustine had nothing to say to that, and was silent when Felix came back to check on Ellie’s progress and escort Eberhard to the infirmary.

-)

“Oh, Felix, it _happens,_ ” Annette said, rubbing consoling circles into the tense muscles of his back. “Crest-bearers are walking accidents. You know that.”

“Sure,” Felix muttered, digging his fork into a baked potato with what Annette would consider ‘excessive force,’ “and it had to happen to the kid who already hates me _and_ Faerghus.”

Annette made a face. “That’s definitely unfortunate, but your class all said it was an accident.”

Felix slammed his head into the dining hall table. “Great,” floated up from his new position, “capital. There are already rumors.”

“Have you let the Headmaster know?” Ignatz asked.

“Yes,” Felix grunted.

“Then you should be okay,” Ignatz said, patting Felix’s arm a few times. The swordsman violently startled. “Ferdinand’s Crest has accidentally injured students, too.”

“Not-Uncle Felix,” Alessia said, tugging at his sleeve from where she sat beside him, “your food is gonna get cold.”

Felix sat back up with a tired sigh, and picked up his fork again. Alessia had accepted the news that Annette was going to be seeing Felix with far more grace than he would have, at her age, and the result left him with a crater in his chest whenever she was upset.

_“Now, this isn’t a book you can read outside our room or Uncle Felix’s okay?” Annette had said when they’d given Alessia her birthday presents._

_Her grey eyes had widened. “Why not?”_

_“It’s a story from Faerghus,” Felix had said, softly. “It could get you into trouble if someone finds you reading it.”_

_Her little brow had furrowed. “Books can get you in trouble?”_

_Annette smiled sadly. “Yes, they can.”_

_“Oh.” Alessia had stared at the book in her hands, and Felix hadn’t been able to read her expression._

_A moment later, she’d popped out of her chair to wrap her mother in a fierce hug. “Thank you, Mama!”_

_She had stunned both Felix and Annette when she went for him next. “Thank you, Uncle Felix!”_

_“Oh, that isn’t my present for you,” Felix had said, patting her head a bit absently._

_Alessia had reeled back. “It isn’t?”_

_“No, it isn’t.” Felix had dropped to a crouch to look at her, his knees cracking the whole way down. “Close your eyes.”_

_Alessia had obediently shut her eyes and held her hands out—only for them to spring open again when Felix laid the incomparable weight of a sheathed dagger there._

_“Uncle Felix,” she’d said, quietly, “Mama says I’m not allowed to touch weaponry.”_

_Annette’s smile had been sad, and she’d bit her lip to stave off her tears. “It’s time, little wolf.”_

_“If you’d grown up in Faerghus,” Felix had said, “you would already be able to hold your own in practice against your mama and me—and in truth against anyone who tried to seriously harm you.”_

_Alessia had leaned forward, almost despite herself. “Really?”_

_Felix had nodded. “Really. But, this isn’t Faerghus, so we’ll start now.”_

_Alessia’s jaw had dropped. “Are_ you _gonna teach me, Uncle Felix?”_

_“Me and your Auntie Shamir,” Felix had confirmed._

_She’d reached out to hug him, only to be startled still by Felix and Annette’s cries of “Whoa, hold on!”_

_“Put the dagger down before you hug him.” Annette’s voice had come out strained._

_Sheepishly, Alessia had set the dagger beside her on the ground before going for Felix again. “We’ll teach you sword etiquette, too,” Felix had said, laughing slightly._

_“Thanks, Uncle Felix!” Alessia’s voice had been muffled by the furs on his chest._

_Over Alessia’s head, Felix had glanced to Annette, and she nodded to him, softly._

_“Hey, about that, little wolf,” Felix had said, gently tugging Alessia away from him and holding her at arm’s length. “You’re gonna need to come up with something else to call me from now on.”_

_“Are you mad?” Dismay had crossed her face. “Did I do something wrong?”_

_“No, I’m not mad.” A small smile tugged at his face. “The thing is, I really like your Mama. And she really likes me, too. So…”_

_“Are you and Mama courting?” Alessia’s excitement had been so palpable it had nearly knocked him over._ _“Please say you are! She’s been much happier since you came back.”_

_“Alessia!” Annette had cried, but Felix had only laughed at her dismay._

_“I’m glad,” Felix had said. “And lucky for you both, yes, I am.”_

_This time it was Annette who was nearly knocked over._

_“Does this mean you’ll be staying with us?” Alessia had asked, her words now flying out of her like a torrent. “And telling me bedtime stories and scaring away the Shadowman? And playing games with me and Mama? And taking me to the fishing pond? And—”_

_“Slow down, little wolf,” Felix had said, laughing. “A lot of that is up to your Mama. But I’m not going anywhere, alright?”_

_“You promise?” Alessia had asked, suspiciously._

_Felix nodded firmly. “I promise.”_

-)

“Headmaster von Vestra,” Markus called, “might I have a word?”

Hubert paused midstride, just outside the dining hall. With all his black heart, he wished to say _no,_ but alas, his duty called.

“What can I do for you?” Hubert asked, instead.

Markus caught up to him. “I’ve just heard the most _terrible_ news about Professor Fraldarius.”

Hubert sighed. Of _course,_ that’s what he was here for. “The student's injury has been dealt with, and Professor Fraldarius is appropriately contrite, von Engel.”

Markus physically recoiled in surprise. “But Headmaster, have you not heard he did it on purpose?”

Hubert’s tone grew cold. “Crest-bearers cannot activate their Crests on a whim. If they could, we never would have been able to take down Prince Dimitri. It was, by every account, an accident.”

“But surely, the safety of our students is paramount?” Markus pressed.

“And it is,” Hubert agreed. “However, I cannot save my students from training accidents, as this is, last I checked, a military academy.”

Markus’ voice dropped to something low and dangerous. “That man is a _menace,_ Hubert.”

“And should I fire von Aegir, for the times he’s accidentally injured _his_ students?” Hubert hissed. “This is nothing more than a transparent attempt to remove Fraldarius from whatever your issue is with Dominic, and I will _not_ be used in such a manner.”

Color rose in Markus’ cheeks, but Hubert wasn’t finished:

“And don’t call me Hubert.”

“What sort of imperial _are_ you?” Markus snarled.

One of Hubert’s best known and most employed skills was simply to _loom,_ and his height put him above most of those who attempted to intimidate him. The utter tragedy of dealing with Markus von Engel was that their heights were entirely too similar for this tactic to work, and so Hubert simply drew his posture from all the way up his spine.

“If we are to be better than the Church,” Hubert said crisply, “we must _choose_ to be better. Firing a perfectly competent professor over an accident, for which he has already followed the protocol to correct, on the whim of a so-called friend of the Headmaster _isn’t_ any better than Archbishop Rhea calling for sinners’ heads over a slight. Now, did you have something of actual note to discuss, or shall you continue to waste my time?”

Markus’ jaw snapped shut. “No, _Headmaster,_ that was all.”

“Capital,” Hubert said. “Now, if you would please excuse me, I have work to do.”

With ill-restrained fury, Markus watched the dark-robed man go, already composing a letter to his father in his mind.

-)

The morning the professors handed out the results of the certification exams, all of Garreg Mach was tenser than a drawn bowstring. 

“Understand,” Felix said as he began handing out the results envelopes, “that failing does not mean you’re barred from advancing. There will be another exam just before parents’ weekend next semester, for those who wish to retake it.”

“Oooh, I just know I failed,” Ellie mumbled, burying her face in her hands.

“Eyes front, Mattingly,” Felix said. “You did your best work; that’s all you’ve got.”

Ellie sat up a little straighter, and Faustine patted her shoulder comfortingly. 

“And that goes for all of you,” Felix added, handing Eberhard his test envelope. “If you aren’t happy with the result, come see me after class. We’ll set you up with a remedial course.”

“ _Remedial_ ,” Eberhard muttered, as though it were a dirty word.

“Yes, von Schmidt,” Felix said, “a _remedial_ course.”

Nervous laughter flittered about the classroom at Eberhard being caught.

Felix reached his desk again and leaned against the font of it. “Proceed.”

Seven envelopes ripped open at once, follow by various cheers and groans.

“I did it!” Ellie shrieked, before immediately covering her mouth.

“You did,” Felix confirmed, a small smile working across his face. “Excellent work.”

“Oh thank the _Goddess,_ ” Owen said, “I _passed!”_

Faustine beamed at her assassin certification, signed and stamped with the Headmaster’s seal and signature. “What about you, Eberhard?” she asked, turning to him.

Only to find him staring in a mixture of shock and horror at his exam. “I _failed?”_

“What?” Faustine blinked, stunned. “Where? Let me see your test.”

Eberhard relinquished his test without fuss, and Faustine quickly spotted his mistakes. He simply hadn’t studied swordsmanship enough, and although it wasn’t required for the paladin certification, that combined with his mistakes in the practical riding portion had been enough to damn him.

Faustine did not miss that swordsmanship was his only class taught by a Faerghusi professor.

“I’m sorry, Eberhard,” Faustine said, reaching out to him.

He shoved her hand away. “I’m fine.”

Fury flashed in Faustine’s eyes, and she took her hand back, unwilling to cause a scene in the middle of class.

“Signups are on my door for planning your schedule for next year,” Felix said, and at once, the chatter in his classroom ceased. “I will be meeting with each of you before year’s end to plan your classes for your final year at Garreg Mach.”

The students all shifted in their seats, discomforted.

“The Officers’ Academy,” he corrected himself, after a moment. “Any questions?”

“Um, Professor Fraldarius?” Siegmund got to his feet to ask his question. “Can we go over what we got wrong, for some of these?”

Fervent nods came from all around the classroom, even from those who had passed their exams.

“Sure,” Felix said. “What questions do you have?”

Faustine did not miss how Eberhard fumed through the rest of the period—right up until the exact moment that Professor Arnault poked her head into the classroom.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but, Professor Fraldarius?”

Felix paused, midway through writing something on the blackboard. “Yes?”

“You’re wanted in the Headmaster’s Office.”

-)

“Now, don’t be nervous,” Dorothea said as she and Felix hurried through the halls. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“Wasn't worried about it, honestly.”

Dorothea made a face. “Well, you’ve got better nerves than I, in that case.”

“So what _does_ Hubert want?” Felix asked as they rounded the corner to Hubert’s office. "If not to chew me out?"

“You’ll understand in a moment.”

She rapped twice on the door, and then Hubert’s voice called out, “You may enter.”

It was all very odd, but Felix supposed that was more what he was used to, from Hubert.

“Felix,” Hubert said the moment the door was shut, “I do apologize for calling on you in the middle of class, but we have a bit of a situation.”

Felix cocked an eyebrow. “Alright?”

“Hey, Fe,” came a warm voice from behind him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Old Wounds Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somebody take this chapter from me so I stop picking at it *insert upside down smiley emoji here*

Felix whipped his entire body around, hand going for the hilt of his sword.

The man standing in the corner of Hubert’s office was nearly the dark mage’s height, and dressed in the worn, piecemeal armor of a career mercenary. Heavy scruff obscured the lower half of his face, and he held his arms behind his head with a sheepish grin.

And his hair was the same fiery red that had haunted Felix’s nightmares for over a decade, albeit now shot through with grey.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the man added with a lazy grin, as though they’d run into each other at a bar on the ass end of nowhere, rather than the heart of Edelgard’s Empire.

Hubert and Dorothea’s hands tensed on their spellbooks when Felix didn't remove his hand from his sword.

“How did I break my arm, as a child?”” Felix asked.

The man didn’t seem the least bit fazed by any of them. “The first time or the second time?”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. “Both.”

“The first time, you were sparring with Glenn and tripped over the end of your lance. I think I was ten, so you must’ve been seven or eight because I remember you crying. The second time, you were sparring with Dimitri and his Crest activated. Both of you were stuck in the infirmary for weeks, and Ingrid and I brought you both snacks and shit so that you, specifically, didn’t lose your mind while stuck in bed. We were, what, fourteen maybe? Before the Academy, but after Glenn died.”

A heavy silence fell across Hubert’s office.

Felix grit his jaw. “Where was Ingrid’s birthmark?”

“On her leg, about here.” The man leaned down and patted his thigh, just above his knee. “It was shaped like Charon territory, kinda.”

Felix shut his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. _One more._ There was one more question he needed to ask:

“What promise did we make, as children?”

The man cracked a genuine smile, and it, too, was the one from Felix’s nightmares. “That we’d die together.” His voice rang out like the tolling of a bell. “I didn’t forget.”

For a moment, no one in Hubert’s office moved.

And then Felix shouted, “ _You rat bastard, I thought you were dead!”_ and Sylvain howled with laughter and scooped Felix into the fiercest hug that either had received in years.

“I’ll go get the others, Hubert,” Dorothea said between giggles, and then she was gone.

“Put me down,” Felix ordered between his teeth, and Sylvain only squeezed him harder.

“I’m sorry,” the cavalier mumbled, “I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, _’m sorry.”_

“Don’t be fucking sorry,” Felix growled, throwing half-hearted punches at wherever he could find that wasn’t covered in armor. “Fucking _explain yourself.”_

Sylvain sighed and set Felix back down on his feet. Immediately, the swordsman took several steps back and his hand went back to his sword, and Sylvain’s facial expression cracked into pieces. 

“Why are you here?” Felix managed around the lump in his throat. “ _How_ are you here?”

_Goddess-dammit_ , he hadn’t cried in years and he wasn’t about to start now.

Sylvain folded his arms across his broad chest, and he looked so much like the brother-in-arms that Felix had stood with all those years that he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to cry, vomit, or punch him.

Maybe all three.

“I surrendered, after that winged Crest Beast decimated our troops,” Sylvain said, quietly. “You were already down after taking that axe to the chest—which, by the way, I’m still angry with you for. I told the healers to hide you, and then went to meet Edelgard.” He stared down at his gloved hands. “They took the Lance of Ruin. Held me prisoner in some compound for months.”

“Twisted did, Felix,” Hubert interjected, quietly. “Not us.”

Sylvain glanced to Edelgard’s former left hand, something unreadable on his face (or perhaps, Felix was just out of practice). “I take it that means something to you, Felix?”

Felix blinked something out of his good eye. “Yeah.”

“So how did you escape?” Hubert asked. It was part of what he’d requested Felix be here for, after all.

Sylvain grimaced. “They tortured Marianne repeatedly into a Crest Beast, and one day she got loose. I used the chaos to escape, only she begged me to take this one with me if I ever got the chance.”

Sylvain leaned over the couch in Hubert’s office, which Felix only just now realized was occupied, and set both hands on the shoulders of the young man sitting there.

He looked to be around fourteen, with a narrow face framed in shaggy blond hair and piecemeal armor like Sylvain’s. He looked up at Felix with warm, brown eyes and a sharp, Faerghusi jawline, and instantly, Felix _knew._

“Hello,” said the boy, his voice low and resonant like his father’s, yet quiet like his mother’s. “I’m Alexander Edmund Blaiddyd. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Felix physically staggered, just barely catching himself on a side table before he ended up on the floor. Hubert shot forward to catch the vase he knocked loose before it shattered on the stone floor.

“Easy, Felix,” Hubert said, setting him to rights.

“He’s got the Crest, Fe.” Something wild glinted in Sylvain’s eyes that Felix had never seen before. “He’s got the Blaiddyd Crest.”

“I’m sorry if I’m painful for you,” Alexander said, softly. “I’m told I look just like my father.”

Felix found his voice. “You don’t need to fucking apologize for that.”

Alexander didn’t startle, but his eyes did widen.

“So as you can see,” Hubert said, and all eyes in the room shot to him, “we have a bit of a situation, here.”

Sylvain’s laughter was bleak. “I never would have brought Alexander here if I’d known _you_ were headmaster.”

It rankled at him, to hear Sylvain insulting Hubert, and Felix had little desire to understand _that_ impulse. 

“Nor would I have expected it,” Hubert returned coolly.

“Hubert’s pretty level-headed, Sylvain,” Felix interrupted, and the shocked look on Sylvain’s face was so familiar it physically hurt, like an old wound. “What did you come here for?”

Sylvain pushed his bangs out of his eyes, just like he had when studying in school. “Well, I’d come to get Alexander into a proper school, but, uh.” He made a face. “Guess it doesn’t matter, now.”

It was almost hilarious, that all the Blue Lions found Garreg Mach to be their safest place, now, despite the fact that it was crawling with Imperials.

“Well,” said Hubert after a moment, “we can hardly enroll him under that name.”

Sylvain froze, tension visible in his shoulders. “Beg pardon?”

“Blaiddyd,” Hubert elaborated. “We shall have to give him an alias.”

This time it was Sylvain who staggered into a side table, and no one was able to catch him before he landed on his ass with enough force to bruise.

“You… you’re considering this?” the cavalier asked. “I didn’t just walk us into our deaths?”

Hubert’s footfalls were soft across the tiled floor of his office. “You have been cleared of any possible wartime charges due to the Enbarr Accords of 1191, and technically have been executed anyhow. And as for the child...”

Hubert glanced to Alexander, who stared up at the Headmaster with all the intensity of his long-dead father. Somewhere deep in his chest, something rumbled, and Felix had to look away or risk crying again.

Hubert turned back to Sylvain, and put out a hand. “…He has done nothing wrong. We do not choose our parents, after all.”

Sylvain’s jaw hung open. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hubert von Vestra?”

Hubert’s smile was tight. “I think you’ll find, Sylvain Gautier, that many of the Empress’ current policies were enacted either without or expressly against my council.”

Sylvain eyed him like he was sizing up prey, and accepted the hand up. “You’re not worried he’s going to grow up and knock her off her throne?”

“With what troops?” Hubert’s smile grew a touch darker. “What relic? What kingdom? Whose funds?”

Sylvain stared at him a moment longer, and then snorted, softly. “Alright, point made.”

“Besides,” Hubert added, “if I wanted to simply take your lives, I wouldn’t have called for Felix to confirm your identity.”

“Better point made,” Sylvain conceded.

“However,” Hubert said, a touch warningly, “this will only work if you play along.”

Sylvain’s smile was mostly teeth. “I’m not staying, so don’t even worry about it.”

“You’re _what?”_ Felix shook with ill-tempered rage. “You show back up after Goddess knows how many fucking years to drop off Dimitri’s son and _fucking leave again?”_

Sylvain faltered, just a little. Felix could see it, in his eyes. “I didn’t know you were here, Fe.”

“Then tell whomever you apparently have plans with that you’re _unexpectedly busy.”_

It was the tone that had once marked his ducal orders, the one that brooked no argument and gave no quarter. He expected the order followed, and he expected it _now._

“That’s just gonna make it harder,” Sylvain said, quietly. “Really, I…” He sighed, and started over. “I’m sorry; I’d given up on trying to find you since you clearly didn’t want to be found.”

“Not by fucking Edelgard, no,” Felix snapped. “But you couldn’t have sent me a letter, in all this time?”

“And risk it being intercepted? Or that you wouldn’t recognize my handwriting and wonder who in the fuck this ‘Cillian’ bastard was?” Sylvain shook his head. “I really do wish I could stay, Fe. But I just can’t, okay?”

A dull thud echoed throughout Hubert’s office.

“Do I look like some girl you’ve coaxed into bed?” Felix growled, shaking the sting out of his hand.

Sylvain cradled his jaw where a bruise the exact shape and size of Felix’s fist was already blooming. “I don’t do that anymore,” Sylvain said, working his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain said after too long a moment. “I bet you wouldn’t.”

For a long moment, they could only stare each other down, the once-Margrave and the once-Duke.

“Annette is here,” Felix burst out. “Mercedes, too. Are you just going to leave without telling them you’re even alive?”

Relief spread across Sylvain’s still-handsome face. “Holy _shit_ , there’s still four Blue Lions?”

Something warm and wet fell into Felix’s beard, and he cursed that he’d never managed to kick the unfortunate habit. “Well, _we_ thought there were three.”

At once, the light was sucked out of his eyes again, and Sylvain hung his head. “I… I’ve got debts, Felix.”

“Pay them,” Felix growled.

“I’ve got ghosts.”

_“Bury them.”_

When Sylvain raised his head again, there were tear tracks streaking down his face. “I’ve got too many dead friends, Fe. I can’t do that to them; I just can’t. I wish I didn’t have to do it to you either, but I swear, I didn’t know.”

“He’s going to go attack the compound they held us in!” Alexander burst out.

It was hard to say who was more stunned by the boy’s outburst—Felix, or Sylvain.

_“Alex,”_ Sylvain said warningly.

“You said you should have died a long time ago,” Alexander said, now on his feet and staring down Sylvain with a stubborn set to his jaw that was woefully familiar. “And I know I’m the reason you haven’t done this before, but you don’t have to go. Please, Da, _listen to him!”_

“So you were just going to drop off this boy and run headlong into death?” Felix drew in a sharp breath to keep himself from screaming. “For _what,_ exactly?”

“For Ingrid,” Sylvain said hoarsely, “and for you. For Dimitri, and Dedue, and Marianne, and Catherine, and Rodrigue, and…”

“How would you like to leave with resources,” Hubert interrupted, “instead of a suicide note?”

Sylvain’s dead-eyed stare pinned him where he stood.

Hubert took it as his cue to go on. “Join the Vestra Sorcery Engineers.”

Sylvain spluttered. “Is that a _joke?”_

“Not at all,” said Hubert. “I hate Twisted; _you_ hate Twisted. Seems a match made in some sort of hell.”

“Only hell I know is this one,” muttered Sylvain. 

“Don’t make me clock you again,” Felix growled.

Abruptly, Sylvain began to laugh. It was hoarse, and rough, and unlike Sylvain’s old laugh at all. But it was his timbre, his cadence, his voice that said: “Fucking _shit,_ I missed you, Fe.”

Whatever Felix had opened his mouth to say was silenced by the open affection in his tone.

“You don’t have to miss me if I’m right here,” he managed, after a moment.

Sylvain ran his hand through his bangs again, and drew in a deep breath. “Alright, Von Vestra.” He snapped to face Hubert, so quickly that the mage startled. “What do you want from me?”

“Your inside knowledge, martial prowess, and general hatred of all things Twisted.”

Hubert paused. “Also, it seemed to me that you might worry your adoptive son and best friend a tad less, this way.”

Stunned, Sylvain staggered again. This time, Alexander reached out to stop him before he fell or smashed into something breakable.

Sylvain leaned heavily on his son, grasping for something solid to hold onto. “You know I also hate everything you Imperials stand for at this point, right?”

“What a coincidence,” Hubert said blackly, “so do I.”

For a long moment, Sylvain stared at the dark figure before him, and Felix could only wonder what he saw.

“Y’know what,” Sylvain finally said, “I think I like you better now that you’re not looming over Edelgard’s shoulder.”

Hubert’s smile was crooked. “I quite agree with you, actually.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Sylvain said with a surprised little laugh, “but alright. Long as Alexander is enrolled, I’m in.”

Relief suffused itself across Felix’s chest, warm and tentative.

Hubert nodded gravely. “Felix, I will assign the boy to your first year Violet Owls next year.”

“That works,” Felix said. “I’ll make sure Faustine keeps an eye out for him.”

Sylvain glanced to his dour brother-in-arms. “I can’t believe you’re a _teacher_ here, Fe.”

“And I shall need an alias for you, Gautier,” Hubert interjected before Felix could decide whether to be offended or not.

“I’ve been going by Cillian Graves,” Sylvain said. “Use that.”

Hubert paused, quill over his paperwork. “Is that meant to be your idea of a joke?”

Sylvain grinned again, feral. “’Tombs’ felt a bit on the nose.”

“Well then, Sir _Graves_ and Sir Graves the Younger,” Hubert said, “welcome to the Officers’ Academy.” He gestured for Sylvain to come over. “Sign here, if you would.”

As Sylvain followed orders, Felix glanced towards Dimitri’s son again.

He certainly _looked_ like the Prince, but somehow still held all the softness of his mother. Felix wondered, in the back of his mind, if Sylvain knew what had become of Marianne since he’d escaped, or if he would have to break the news.

Four saints, Felix had _so_ much to tell him _._

“Hi, um,” Alexander said softly when he caught Felix staring. “Da has told me a lot about you. Do you mind if I call you Uncle?”

It took Felix a moment to catch that by ‘Da,’ Alexander must mean Sylvain. “Probably won’t help your cover story any,” Felix said. 

“Oh.” Alexander frowned. “That’s true.”

“What _is_ our cover story, anyway?” Sylvain asked from over by Hubert’s desk. “I won’t be able to hide how well I know Fe. Sorry.”

“We were mercenaries together,” Felix suggested, a bit distantly.

“Cillian actually has been a mercenary for the last eight years or so,” Sylvain said. “That’s easy enough.”

“It will do,” Hubert said, filling out more paperwork. “Now, Sylvain, there is the matter of tuition, but we can discuss that when we determine your pay.”

Sylvain blinked. “My _pay?”_

Hubert glanced up over the rim of his reading glasses. “Did you think I didn’t pay my Engineers?”

“I guess it makes more sense that you would,” Sylvain muttered, “rather than wouldn’t.”

“However,” Hubert continued, “my Lieutenant isn’t due back for at least another week, so you’ll just have to stick around until then.”

Sylvain’s jaw fell open as he stared down the Imperial spymaster. “Did you just _play_ me?”

“Hardly.” Hubert folded his hands behind his back. “It’s simply true. But, if it puts you in Felix, Annette, and Mercedes’ crosshairs—well, that’s none of my business.”

Sylvain burst out laughing only a split second after Felix did, and suddenly, all the tension in the room broke.

"You're a brilliant bastard, Hubert," Sylvain said.

"So they say," Hubert agreed.

“Anyway." Sylvain turned back to Felix, his arms spread wide. “Will you actually hug me, now that you’ve clocked me twice, Fe?”

Suddenly they were kids again, and Felix was crying about something Glenn had done and Sylvain doing his best to tell him that brothers were dumb, friend-brothers were better, anyway.

“You get _one_ ,” Felix croaked.

Sylvain beamed and hugged him so fiercely, Felix felt his spine crack in three places. Felix squeezed back with all the force left in him, and he heard Sylvain’s soft laugh somewhere above his head.

“I’m so glad you’re not dead,” Sylvain said as he let go, clumsily patting Felix’s head a few times.

Hubert laughed, quietly. “I thought Northmen didn’t hug?”

“Oh, Fraldarius don’t,” Sylvain said. “It’s why they’re emotionally constipated.”

“Speak for your _self,_ Gautier,” Felix snapped as laughter rose around him.

“What?” Sylvain asked innocently. “You mean like how I was supposed to get a firm handshake from my father when I came of age, and that didn't help, either?”

Felix snorted, and Alexander outright laughed.

“Oh, Felix,” Hubert said as he gathered Alexander’s paperwork, “I will be covering your classes this afternoon, once Dorothea has returned.” His smile was very tired. “I figure you’ve a bit to catch up on.”

It took the swordsman a moment to find his voice. “Thanks, Hubert.”

Sylvain grasped Felix’s shoulder. “Well, what do you say, Fe? You’re off the hook and I’m stuck here. Let me buy you a beer.”

“I say—you owe me _so many_ beers, you bastard.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy come hang out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)  
> for more shenanigans


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Faerghus wolfpack grows

“Start from the beginning,” Felix ordered as Sylvain returned from the bar with three flagons of ale. “What’s this about escaping a Twisted compound?”

“Uh,” Sylvain said, “should I be telling you in public?”

Felix gestured to the empty bar. “It’s three in the afternoon, and the bartender is one of Hubert’s boys. Tell away.”

Sylvain narrowly avoided snorting into his beer. “Side note, are you _friends_ with Hubert now?”

“He’s actually not that bad,” Felix said, “now that he’s removed himself from Edelgard’s ass.”

Sylvain shook his head in disbelief. “When I walked into that office and found him sitting there, I thought he was going to kill me.”

“That’s just his face,” Felix said.

This time it was Alexander who almost snorted into his (watered-down) beer.

Felix glanced over to him. “Well, _he’s_ already more fun than the Boar.”

Sylvain gave a spluttering laugh as Alexander’s brow furrowed.

“How did he happen, anyway?” Felix added, taking a sip of ale.

“Well,” Sylvain said, brushing beer foam out of his moustache, “when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much…”

Felix had to stand on the footrest of his barstool to smack Sylvain from across the table, but he managed.

Alexander looked mildly horrified, but Sylvain only laughed. “Nah, Marianne was apparently pregnant during the Battle of Fhirdiad.” A chill fell over their table. “It was just too early for her to know.”

Fresh horror washed across him, and Felix had to set his drink down. “Does that mean she gave birth in a Twisted Compound?”

Hubert had said it once, all those months ago in the Cathedral, but Felix wanted confirmation from the source (or nearabouts, anyway).

“She must have,” Sylvain said, quietly. “Alexander was already a toddler by the time I was thrown in with her, after Spirits’ Fen.” He took a contemplative swig of ale. “By the way—Twisted? Who are they?”

“The ones responsible for the Tragedy of Duscur, apparently,” Felix said flatly. “Some shadowy-ass organization Edelgard used to win her war, and Hubert named _terribly.”_

“I don’t think ‘Twisted’ is all that bad a name? A bit simple, but…”

“ _I_ call them Twisted,” Felix interrupted, “because Hubert calls them Those Who Slither in the Dark, and it was nearly their acronym.”

Sylvain did the mental math, writing letters in the air before him. Felix and Alexander could see the exact moment that it clicked on his face. “Explains the unending Crest Beasts,” he muttered. “If she used them to win the war, they must have been loosing their experiments on us for years.”

“They’re awful people,” Alexander piped up quietly, and unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” Felix confirmed. “They are.”

Sylvain glanced over his shoulder towards the door, and then the taproom. “Are you _sure_ it’s safe to get into it here?”

“Hey,” Felix called across to the bartender, “Cato. Is this place warded?”

“It can be in a minute,” Cato the bartender confirmed.

Felix turned back to Sylvain. “Pretty safe, yeah.”

Sylvain laughed. “If you tell me you’re working with Hubert now, I’m going to want to see the birthmark on your butt to make sure it’s really you.”

“First of all,” Felix said, his face going scarlet, “he’s my actual boss.”

Sylvain waved him off with all the showy casualness of an opera star. “Not that.”

“Second of all,” Felix said hotly, “might I reiterate, he knows who murdered Glenn and why, and _you were dead for ten years?”_

Sylvain deflated in his seat. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not reasonable that you would have never made another friend.” He took a sip of ale. “It’s just... Hubert von Vestra? Really?”

“This postwar nightmare,” Felix proclaimed, “is a _nightmare.”_

Sylvain clinked their tankards together. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Um,” said Alexander, speaking for the first time in the conversation, “who, um, is he, exactly?”

Sylvain smacked himself in the forehead. “Right, sorry kiddo. Hubert was Empress Edelgard’s left hand man for pretty much the entire time we knew him. The academy, the war, all of it.”

“Did you know he was in love with her that whole time?” Felix asked.

Horror crossed Sylvain’s face, and he made a pained, vaguely sympathetic noise. “ _That_ explains a lot.”

Their table was quiet for a moment, and the three of them sipped their ale in uneasy silence.

Then Sylvain said, “I don’t regret hiding you at Spirits’ Fen, by the way. I’d’ve saved the Aegis too, if I could.”

Felix recalled waking up in a panicked haze, eye bandaged and weapons missing. The Healers had done their best to explain the hasty disguise, but the Aegis had been long gone by then. _The Empress spared the troops, but took our generals and your relic._

Felix could see what was coming from a hundred paces, but dread still rose beneath his sternum. “What did they do to you?”

Sylvain threw one last glance over his shoulder, sighed, and began tugging at the glove on his left hand. “So, let me start by saying they took so much blood I was frequently woozy. I figured it was for Crest Experiments pretty early on, since they had Lorenz Gloucester and Marianne, too—and all of our Relics.”

Ale threatened to come right back up Felix’s throat. “I didn’t know that about Lorenz.”

“He didn’t last very long,” Sylvain said softly, still working his glove free. “But I’m Faerghusi, y’know? Grew up in her harsh northern winters, built to withstand _terrible_ things.”

“Syl _vain,”_ Felix growled.

“Sorry.” The other man grew contrite. “You know how I am. If I don’t make fun of shit, I’ll lose my mind.”

Felix was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t already.

“Anyway,” Sylvain said, the glove now worked free but still held in place with his other hand, “they figured out how to put a second Crest in someone, did you know?”

“Yeah,” Felix said, “Edelgard has two.”

“Right,” Sylvain said, quietly. “And so does Lysithea for the same reason.”

“Did,” said Felix.

Sylvain winced, viscerally. “ _I_ didn’t know that about Lysithea.”

“It’s recent,” Felix muttered into his tankard.

Sylvain shook his head. “Well, they’re trying to do the opposite, too—take someone’s Crest away.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t they do it to Byleth?”

“I don’t think so,” Sylvain said. “I think hers has to do with whatever Archbishop Rhea did to her.”

“I _knew_ there was something wrong with the Archbishop,” Felix muttered. “Her kindness was too performative.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Sylvain took a sip of ale. “Never did learn what she did, though. Theories are—”

“Byleth had a Crest Stone,” Alexander interrupted, “instead of a heart.”

Both Felix and Sylvain turned to stare at the boy.

“How do you know that?” Sylvain asked .

Alexander’s brow furrowed. “How _do_ I know that?”

“Oh yeah,” Sylvain said, “that’s another side effect of their Crest Experimentation. _That_ happens.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Felix said over the lip of his tankard. “All Crests are is ancestral memory and trauma, when you get down to it.” He paused. “Wait, _another?”_

“I’m getting there,” Sylvain assured him. “So they figured out how to give someone another Crest with both Crestless-folk and Crested-folk, but _apparently,_ the reason I was saved from the hangman’s noose is exactly what I said earlier. I’m Faerghusi. I’m hardy. An _excellent_ specimen.”

This time Felix really did vomit, directly into his beer. Alexander reached over to rub apologetically soothing circles into his back as Felix pushed his ruined beer away. The way Sylvain spoke of himself, with such _disdain,_ was enough to boil his blood.

“They almost succeeded a couple of times, I think,” Sylvain continued. “I wanted to laugh—did they know how much easier my life would have been, growing up, if I _didn’t_ have a Crest?”

“Don’t talk like that,” Felix hissed between clenched teeth.

“But they never actually managed it,” Sylvain said, with gleeful indignation. “‘Cause you know what lives in Crests?”

“Ancestral trauma, like I said?”

“More than that.” Sylvain finally yanked off his glove.

The skin at his elbow was the same color and texture as the rest of him—fair, normal skin, with a fine layer of red hair in places. But as his forearm drew closer to his hand, it shifted, growing black and sinewy, until it ended in not fingers and fingernails, but talons.

“Beasts,” Sylvain said.

-)

When Annette had been called into Hubert’s office earlier that day, she’d assumed the worst— _I’ve done something wrong; I’m fired; Felix has gone missing, or is dead, or worse—_ right up until Dorothea told her she’d done nothing wrong and would understand in a moment.

Annette had not been prepared to find Sylvain standing there.

She’d cried— _he’d_ cried—and yelled at him about never contacting them sooner. She learned quickly that Felix had done much the same about half an hour previously, and that they were planning to head the Pub if she wanted to join them later. He fell in like he’d never left, and it felt almost normal to have him back.

But she had been even _less_ prepared to find Dimitri and Marianne’s son.

The boy was sweet-tempered like his mother but built like his father, and Annette wasn’t sure whether to laugh that he’d survived all this time, Empress be damned, or weep at all that he had lost.

_It’s alright,_ Alexander had said. _I never even met my father._

When Annette had told the boys that she might be late getting to the bar if she, Felix, and Mercedes were all going to go, but Sylvain had cut her off, and told her to just bring Alessia. 

“You want me to bring my _nine year old daughter_ to a _bar?”_ Annette said.

“What’s the issue?” Sylvain blinked at her like _she_ was the mad one. “We’re bringing Alexander, and he’ll love having another kid around.”

Watching Dimitri’s son interact with her daughter now, Annette was relieved to find that Sylvain had been right. The boy seemed delighted to talk to someone closer to his own age than a bunch of middle-aged war vets, and happily played checkers in the corner with her for hours as he drank watered down beer and told her stories about all the places he’d seen with Sylvain.

“He’s a natural big brother,” Sylvain said when he caught her staring.

“Yeah,” Annette said with a small laugh, “I guess he is.”

“You worry too much,” Felix said, nudging her so that she made space on the bench beside her.

It had taken Sylvain all of about thirty seconds to realize what Felix and Annette now were, and he’d immediately ordered a round for the entire pub. “Wittle cwybaby Fewix is all growed up,” he’d said.

Felix had promptly clocked him and the two had then gotten into a fistfight that took Hubert, Dorothea, _and_ a few other bar patrons to separate. Within twenty minutes they were back to drinking together, Felix nursing a black eye and Sylvain a bloody nose, both laughing and claiming they’d won.

It was so much like a Faerghus pub, Annette almost cried.

Hubert, meanwhile, felt distinctly out of place. He’d told Dorothea to go on and join the inevitable party that Sylvain was building, but she’d insisted he come along, no they wouldn’t mind, yes he’d be welcome there. Annette and Felix would almost certainly just find him a barstool, and Sylvain was going to have to get used to him, anyway.

It had been a mistake to listen to her.

Felix, Annette, and Mercedes had obviously known Sylvain, all of them being Blue Lions, and their relief and finding one another was palpable. Dorothea, too, had known the former heir of Gautier, and the two of them struck up their chaotic friendship as though nothing had changed, as though fifteen years hadn’t passed since they’d last walked the halls of the Officers’ Academy together.

But Hubert, whose only true friend back then had been Edelgard, was alone. He didn’t recall the dorm room parties or gossip they did, hadn’t spent much time in the library or mess hall when he wasn’t actively studying or eating, respectively, and had been gone so often on Flame Emperor business that the fact that his attendance hadn’t tanked his grades was a minor miracle. School had been a stepping stone and a cover story. Nothing more and nothing less.

But listening to his old classmates now, Hubert was beginning to wonder if he and Edelgard had had it backwards. Felix had been infamous for training at all waking hours and Annette, for studying with every breath, and yet they still held fond memories of their time at the Academy. They still remembered the time that Claude had stolen and hidden Professor Hanneman’s monocle and the poor old man had squinted at everything for a week until Petra turned up with it and a very angry Seteth had chased Claude across the academic quad. They still remembered the time Sylvain had been shoved in the fishing pond by his latest ex-girlfriend’s brother, still remembered Professor Byleth’s awkward tea parties, still remembered the opera Dorothea had put together to raise money for the local orphanage and how her voice had taken on an ethereal quality in the cathedral’s heights.

Hubert recalled the inside of his and Edelgard’s dorm rooms with almost perfect clarity, and the old Black Eagles’ classroom with slightly less.

He had asked Felix, once, to tell him about Sylvain, and the warmth in the swordsman’s voice then was reflected in their interactions now. Felix was rightfully angry, but also, much deeper down, clearly relieved that Sylvain was alive and relatively unharmed, that maybe he hadn’t lost _everything_ in the war. Some bits of home could remain with him—through Annette, naturally, but now through Sylvain and Alexander, too.

Unexpectedly, Hubert’s heart ached, and he excused himself at one point to get some air.

The late spring night was comfortably warm. Hubert let out a tired breath as he found a bench near the pub, and set his head into his hands.

_This is why you don’t go to parties,_ he reminded himself flatly. It had been Edelgard who had been the social butterfly, Byleth who had learned to chat with all manner of folk, Ferdinand who did most of the talking, these days. Hubert kept to the shadows, and it suited him just fine.

Only…

He was beginning to realize, year by year, piece by piece, that without Edelgard’s agendas to pursue, or the all-consuming grief he’d felt for so long, he was, for the first time since he had been a child assigned to her care, alone.

No, that wasn’t strictly true. Ferdinand had just about always been here at Garreg Mach, and the Sorcery Engineers were forever in and out. But they weren’t stopping for tea, or joining him for a drink, or simply, physically, _here,_

In the short time they’d been with the Academy, the ones with physical presences were Dorothea and Felix. She was constantly pulling him out of his office, and although he’d never been less caught up on paperwork in his life, he found himself protesting less and less every time she came around. And Felix, he had quickly learned, would never turn down the chance for a cold beer. Hubert had long since decided it was one of his better qualities.

And more so than the Vestra sorcery engineers, or Dorothea, or even Ferdinand, Felix understood exactly what it was Hubert had lost. 

He understood what it was like to be the hand of a liege no longer there, understood the caved-in hole in Hubert’s chest as he stared down the vast, sweeping landscape of futures he hadn’t had to consider before, understood that some part of him deeply resented the crown for demanding so much and, for what, exactly?

Felix had cast it all aside years ago, and Hubert was beginning to see why. What good was a chessmaster when there was no endgame? What use was a war dog, with no war (or at least, not one the Empress recognized)?

What use was Hubert, without Edelgard?

“Oh, Hubie!” Dorothea’s voice was an operatic singsong.

His head snapped up, just in time to see her take up beside him on the bench. 

Her voice was light, smile teasing. “Were you going to hide from us for the rest of the evening, Hubie dear?”

  
“I’m not _hiding,”_ Hubert protested. “There was just a bit too much Northern wind in the bar for me at the moment.”

Dorothea gave an airy laugh. “Cillian is a riot, isn’t he? Like he hasn’t aged a day.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

He had asked Felix earlier, while Annette and Mercedes had recounted their list of grievances to Sylvain and the room had been sufficiently distracted. _So, do you think it’s really him? Not Twisted, wearing his face?_

Felix had barely hesitated. _Yes, I do. He knows too much, thinks too little, laughs too loud, and smiles too hard. He hasn’t changed a bit—except the places where he’s deeply fucked up from what they did to him._

“Oh,” Dorothea said, momentarily taken aback. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Hubert raised his eyebrows at her, in lieu of response.

Dorothea paused, and suddenly her face was very much in his personal space. “Hubert,” she said after a long moment, “are you, perhaps, _jealous?”_

“Of Cillian Graves? Hardly. I don’t envy what he’s been put through, even before the war.”

Even he and Edelgard had been taken aback by the news of what Miklan Gautier had become, when the church had sent Sylvain to Conand Tower to corner his disowned older brother and retrieve the Lance of Ruin. It was one thing to understand Crest Beasts at an intellectual level; it was quite another to hear firsthand from their disturbed classmates what exactly they were.

“Oh, not like that.” Dorothea waved him off, but still, her face hovered near his. “I mean, are you jealous that Felix has his old best friend back?”

It... made more sense than Hubert cared to admit.

“I don’t see how that should bother me,” Hubert said after too long a moment. “By all rights, it’s a miracle.”

“Be _cause,”_ Dorothea said, as though Hubert were incredibly dense, “Felix is, I think, the first friend I’ve ever seen you make that wasn’t under duress. All that effort, swept away in an afternoon? It wouldn’t surprise me at all if you weren’t feeling charitable.”

They settled into a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable, and wasn’t quite brittle.

“It’s okay if you have feelings, you know,” Dorothea eventually added.

“Thank you, mother dear,” Hubert deadpanned.

“You could use a stand-in mother once in a while.” Dorothea shoved him playfully into the arm of the bench. “I know you didn’t have one,” she added, much softer.

“Ah, is that what they’re saying about me this week? Am I born of crows, or of the void, this time?”

“Neither, I’m afraid. Void-crows.”

“Ah. How silly of me to forget. I should send them a card.”

Dorothea laughed, and Hubert didn’t miss how she threaded her arm through his. She’d always had a habit of it, but it was normally when walking. Not just sitting here. Not just… familiarly. Like his hands weren’t a wasteland of crisscrossing dark magic burns, and his scowl wasn’t permanently etched into his brow.

“After you left Enbarr, I left flowers on her grave for you,” Dorothea admitted, much more quietly than she typically spoke. “It seemed sad, that it should stop just because you’re away.”

“I…” It took Hubert an embarrassingly long moment to find his voice. “I didn’t realize you’d done that.” 

He had only told her once, while very drunk in the immediate post war, that his mother had died when he was very small, and for as long as he could remember, the von Vestra manor had consisted of just him, his father, and a handful of staff. So really, giving it up was no great loss. He’d get what he needed out of it and set the place on fire, if he had to.

He hadn’t realized she’d _listened,_ let alone remembered.

“Well, I didn’t want you to think I was just doing it to get out of Strike Force business or something,” Dorothea said. “It just seemed important to you, so I made sure she wasn’t left flowerless.”

Hubert could only stare at her for a long moment, completely adrift and without moorings in this uncharted territory.

And then a voice called out, “Hey, von Vestra, were you planning to avoid me all night, or what?”

For a moment, Hubert had to fight his hindbrain reaction to jerk away from them and reach for his magic, for the last time he’d been approached by Fraldarius blue and Gautier red in concert had been fifteen years ago in Gronder Field.

“Easy, mage boy,” Sylvain said, his words running together and slurred. “Fe says we can trust you. And I pantsed him earlier and confirmed he still has that birthmark on his butt, so he’s definitely Fe, so I guess that makes us friend-ish-things-kinda.”

“I hate you.” Felix’s cloak snapped about his boots as he turned to retreat. “I’m going back.”

Sylvain caught him by the hood, and the swordsman choked.

“Technically,” Hubert said, “I’m your boss, now.”

Dorothea howled with laughter. “And how do _you_ know he has a birthmark there?”

Sylvain blinked at her. “Because we were thrown in the same bathtub as little kids and also had to make sure the other one didn’t die bathing in rivers in wartime?”

It perfectly encapsulated what Dorothea had been saying earlier. _Aren’t you jealous, that Felix has his old friend back, and you’re just as alone as you’ve ever been?_

Not exactly, Hubert decided. Mostly, he just felt crushingly, achingly empty.

“Anyway,” Felix said, enunciating the word with excruciating, intoxicated diction, “we’re going to start a round of Three Wise Men, are you coming or what?”

“Alexander is judging,” Sylvain added. “And Alessia has no idea what’s going on, but she’s giggling. Annette is going to _kill_ me tomorrow, but it’ll be so worth it.”

Hubert blinked. “A game of what?”

“Three Wise Men,” Felix said again. “It’s an old Faerghus drinking game. I’ll teach you the rules on the way; it’s not hard.”

Something much softer than before settled across Hubert’s chest, and he found that he could breathe again. “Ah…” 

“It will also catch you up to these two quite nicely, Hubie dear,” Dorothea said. “Since I don’t know about you, but _I’ve_ certainly sobered up out here.”

Sylvain snorted so hard he choked, and Felix had to thwack him on the back a few times until he coughed whatever it was up.

“Charming,” Hubert said.

Sylvain jabbed a threatening finger in Hubert’s direction. “I don’t need this from you.”

This time it was Felix who cackled. “Put that edge away before you hurt yourself.”

“ _Felix!_ You _wound_ me! Which of us was partying as a young man, and which of us was studying the blade? Because only _one of us_ is missing an eye, here.”

Hubert’s eyes widened in shock but Felix only cackled again, albeit a bit more darkly.

“And which of us was chased by Count Rowe brandishing a pitchfork?”

Sylvain smacked one hand against his heart, followed dramatically by the other and then a noise as if he’d been stabbed in a play.

Dorothea laughed. “Your acting needs some work, Sylvain.”

“It’s Cillian,” he said to her with a wink.

Hubert was wholly unprepared for the roar in his chest, at that. Sylvain winking was about as noteworthy as Felix with a sword at his hip, or his own wearing black, so why, _why_ did it bother him when directed at Dorothea?

“Ah, my mistake,” Dorothea said. “I’ll have to rehearse my lines some more.”

“Get on that before you get him killed,” Felix snapped. 

“Easy, Fe,” Sylvain said. “Not like there are students out here to overhear.”

“It’s not the students I’m concerned with,” Felix said.

“OH!” Sylvain swiveled so sharply back towards Hubert and Dorothea that both Adrestian mages startled. “By the way. About Alexander.”

“We know whose son he is, Syl-lian,” Dorothea said, catching herself this time.

“Oh I know.” Sylvain waved that off. “But I should warn you three.”

Sylvain’s erratic behavior made Hubert feel the distinct urge to get on his feet. “ _Warn_ us?”

Sylvain nodded, vigorously. “I know he seems like a sweet kid, but he’s seen some shit.” His brow eyes went wide.

“Understandably,” Hubert said. 

“But he, uh—and I think his Crest might have something to do with this, honestly—sometimes he just… loses it.”

Felix blinked a few times. Evidently, this was news to him, too. “Like the boar?” 

Sylvain nodded. “ _Exactly_ like him.”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed. “And you think it has something to do with his Crest?”

“Fe said it best, earlier.” Sylvain slung an arm around Felix, who immediately stiffened and tried to work himself free. “Crests are ancestral trauma. I don’t think D—well, Alexander’s father was crazy at all. I think his Crest made him that way.”

Dorothea, Hubert, and Felix all stared at Sylvain with growing horror.

“But what do I know?” Sylvain muttered. “I was just a lab rat.”

“That reminds me,” Felix said, glancing to Hubert. “When he’s sober, you should show him the thing.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “The thing?”

Felix gestured impatiently. “The Cathedral thing.”

Well, he was no Adrestian spy, but he certainly got the job done. “I’m not in that habit of letting just anyone see that, you know,” Hubert said.

“Don’t be a shit,” Felix said. “Ask him about his Crest theories sometime. You’ll get it. You’re smart.” He reached out and patted Hubert’s cheek a few times, hard enough to sting.

“Alright,” Dorothea said, letting go of Hubert to loop an arm through both Felix and Sylvain’s, “come on, in we go. Felix, you don’t want to keep Annette waiting, do you?”

It was a testament to how drunk he was that he allowed himself to be herded. “That’s not the Dominic woman I’d be concerned with.”

Hubert stopped attempting to unravel the knot of emotions in his chest, and instead fell into step with his friends.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone sees ghosts

“Holy shit,” Sylvain said as he stood in the Cathedral, that first week of summer break. “It’s really her.”

The Crest Beast slumbered in the same place it had the last time Felix had been here, only this time there was no snow to pin it down. His instincts still sang at the sight of it, and it was a concerted effort not to reach for his blade, his magic, _anything._

“She recognized me.” Felix folded his arms across his chest. “Course it’s Marianne.”

“She wasn’t always a Crest Beast on the way over,” Hubert said without looking up from the tinctures he and Linhardt were fiddling with, over where the choir had once practiced. “It’s mostly been recent years she's stayed in that form full time, though I don’t believe she was ever able to control it.”

“Hence the Cathedral,” Sylvain muttered.

“Just so,” said Hubert.

“Her body is probably trying to heal,” Linhardt piped up, “if I had to take an educated guess.”

They all stared at the sleeping beast for a moment, at its angry red scars and patchy fur.

“Hey, Marianne.” Sylvain reached out to the beast despite himself. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but, uh.” He barreled right on through. “Oh, I jailbroke your son, like you asked! Look how big he is now.”

“Mother…?” Alexander was staring at the beast in horrified wonder, reaching out with trembling fingers to stroke her fur. 

The beast’s eyes snapped open, and Felix immediately yanked Alexander backwards. He was surprised by the robust weight of the boy, given that he wasn’t that much taller or solidly-built than Felix was.

“She won’t hurt me,” Alexander murmured. 

“You don’t know that,” Felix said, lowly.

_“Al-ex,”_ the Crest Beast rumbled softly. “ _Syl-vain.”_

They had warned the boy, of course. Hubert had let him know what he could expect to find in the Cathedral, and offered him the choice to see it with his own eyes. Alexander had immediately nodded, soft eyes like flint.

“Mama.” Fat tears rolled down his face, but Alexander appeared not to notice. “Good morning.”

_“Mor-ning,”_ rumbled the Crest Beast.

Alexander gave a breathless sort of laugh, and Felix finally let go of him.

“So what exactly are you doing here, Hubert?” Sylvain asked. “What should we expect?”

“We are _doing,”_ said the white mage whose name was most definitely not Hubert, “a very delicate dance, here.”

“If Linhardt’s math is correct,” Hubert began, “and it has been before, then the vulnerary produced here should allow Marianne’s body to rid itself of her Crest.”

“It occurs to me,” Sylvain said flatly, “that answers nothing.”

“For Lysithea,” Linhardt said, “it was something like a miscarriage. I’m not sure if Marianne will have a similar reaction, or something different.”

Felix grimaced. “Should we expect that much blood?”

“That _is_ where Crests live,” Linhardt said, as though Felix were an idiot.

“So what about men?” Sylvain asked. “How would it come shooting out of one of us?”

“Excellent question.” Linhardt fiddled with something on the alchemy table for a moment. “The best theories we’ve come up with thus far are either ‘very bloody vomit,’ or ‘the universe’s worst shit.’”

Felix and Sylvain snorted, but Hubert’s face contorted. “Truly charming, Linhardt,” he said.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” Sylvain said.

“I think ours,” Felix muttered. “At least miscarriages are built-in.”

“I meant the vomit or the shit, but yeah, that too.”

“Provided, of course, that it even works on men at all,” Linhardt added. “I’ve only successfully removed a Crest from a woman thus far.”

“Um, Headmaster von Vestra?” Alexander called. “Professor von Hevring?”

“I’m not a professor,” Linhardt said.

Hubert heaved a tired sigh. “Yes, Alexander?”

“What… happens if you remove her Crest while she’s like this?”

“Presumably,” Linhardt said, “she’ll shrink back down to her proper size and form.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “And do we have a _cloak_ for the poor woman should that happen? A _dress?_ Or do those just magically appear?”

“Oh.” Linhardt froze. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Lucky for you,” Hubert said, “I did. Alexander, behind the old pipe organ, you should find some things for your mother.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes longer, the white and dark mages of the Black Eagles Strike Force. Across the ruined cathedral floor, Felix began to pace, and Alexander began to pray. Only Sylvain remained still, his dragon-arm twitching beneath his gloves.

And then Linhardt gingerly lifted a small flask from the table, its contents still roiling from the residual heat. “Alright, Marianne,” he said. “Open wide.”

The Crest Beast opened its massive jaws, and though Felix flinched backwards and reached for his sword, Sylvain stared it down impassively. Alexander tensed as he stared down the beast’s teeth, clutching a navy blue cloak tightly, even as he poised to throw it.

“In you go,” Linhardt muttered as he drew near her, tossing the flask into the Crest Beast’s gaping jaws.

Her teeth came down hard, and the flask crunched. The Beast threw its head back and gave an audible swallow, and then the entire cathedral held its breath.

And then another.

And another.

“Soooo,” Sylvain said, drawing the word out, “how long does this usually take?”

Linhardt’s brow furrowed. “That’s strange. It should have done something by now.”

He drew back and began drawing a complicated magic sigil in the air before him. The rest of them watched in weighted silence as Linhardt’s cheerful green magic reached out to surround Marianne. She gave a snort and shook herself, as if the sigil were a fly that had landed on her flank.

“Hubert,” Linhardt said after a moment, releasing the sigil, “I think you calculated wrong.”

“I believe _you_ were the one doing the calculating,” Hubert said flatly. “I take it there’s too much Beast and not enough magic?”

Linhardt made a face. “I think so? We’re going to need some more mages.”

Alexander deflated, and Sylvain remained unfazed at the news. “Well, Felix and me are mages,” Sylvain said. “What do you need?”

Linhardt shot Sylvain a look as though truly, he had never met anyone stupider. “You and Felix are soldiers who can mend a broken bone and maybe set something on fire. I need actual _mages.”_

Something flashed in Sylvain’s eyes as Linhardt continued, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the vast emptiness Felix was starting to learn that he just carried with him, now. 

“Get Annette and Dorothea,” Felix burst out. “Mercedes too, if you need her.”

“Oh.” Linhardt paused, mid-sentence. “They might work. They’re certainly better-trained.”

Hubert froze where he stood. “I am not in the habit of exposing this secret to the world, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sylvain said. “How’d Felix know about it?”

Hubert’s jaw opened and shut again. “I was drunk,” he said, after a moment.

“So get drunk and invite your girlfriend to do magic shit,” Sylvain said. “Sheesh, I wish my problems were that easy to solve.”

Alexander giggled, somewhere over near the old pipe organ, as Hubert spluttered and grew steadily redder. 

“Oooooh you’re not there yet,” Sylvain said. “Well then, you’re double welcome. Date idea.”

Hubert glanced helplessly to Felix, who gave an overelaborate shrug. “Regrettably,” said the swordsman, “this is what he’s been like our whole lives.”

“No wonder you drink,” Linhardt said, “he sounds like a nightmare.”

“He’s right here!” Alexander said, appalled.

“Oh no,” Sylvain said, an erratic grin stretching across his face, “he’s right. I am a nightmare.”

-)

“So these are Linhardt’s mysterious notes, hmm?” Dorothea asked later that day as she and Hubert poured over magical formulae in the Headmaster’s Suite. “I always wondered what they’d look like, and they are, unfortunately, just as messy as I feared.”

“There’s no way around that, I’m afraid,” Hubert said. Loathe as he was to admit defeat, Linhardt’s looping scrawl was starting to give him a headache, too.

Dorothea resumed her pacing as she studied the research notes. It was a habit she’d apparently kept from their Academy days, where she would insist on studying while pacing the library. Lorenz had accused her more than once of worrying about her figure, rather than her grades, but Dorothea had always trounced him when tests rolled around, and he eventually gave it up.

Hubert found it rather endearing that she still did it while thinking things over.

“So how devastated was Alexander?” she asked from across the way.

“Honestly,” Hubert said, “I don’t think he expected to actually find his mother there, let alone that the vulnerary would work.”

“Poor thing,” Dorothea said, with genuine feeling. “I’m sure he’s used to disappointment, by now. No matter how hard Sylvain has been trying, he’s, well. Himself.”

Hubert wasn’t sure what exactly to say to that, but thankfully, he didn’t have to, because Dorothea kept right on.

“Maybe Annette and Mercedes can help knock some sense into both of them,” Dorothea added. “Annette is actually a mother, and Mercedes was born to be. I’m not sure if Alexander ever had a mother-figure, you know?”

She pulled up to a stop, just across the coffee table from Hubert. “I suppose you must think it’s strange, that I’m worrying so much about Dimitri Blaiddyd’s son.”

“I don’t think so at all,” Hubert said, and oddly enough, he found it to be true. “You were always looking out for children during the war and afterwards. It doesn't surprise me that you still do.” A small, if underused, smile spread across his face. “They’re lucky to have you.”

“Oh, hush,” Dorothea said. “You’ll make me blush.”

Hubert pretended to turn back to his notes. “I fail to see how that’s a bad thing.” 

This time, scarlet bloomed across her face, and he felt a triumphant rumble, deep in his chest.

With a melodramatic sigh, Dorothea threw herself onto the other side of the couch. “Does any of this make sense to you? I recognize some of the theorems and formulae he’s using, but I’ve _no idea_ how or why it’s strung together like this, or why it would have failed this morning.”

“Allow me to assist you.” Hubert leaned forward to set the notebook he’d been reading on the table, and then gestured for the one Dorothea had been studying. 

She passed him Linhardt’s notebook and then settled in beside him as he began walking them both through Linhardt’s thought process. Page after page, notebook after notebook, they deciphered Linhardt’s work together, and Hubert tried not to dwell on how, with the turn of each page, Dorothea edged closer and closer to him until she was nearly sitting in his lap (nor on the fact that honestly, he really didn’t mind).

At some point, they left together to go find dinner, which turned into bringing dinner back up to Hubert’s quarters to break bread with Felix and Annette and determine what the redheaded mage had figured out.

She had plenty of theories on where to go from here, but not always the logical leaps to get there. The third time Felix pressed his thumb and forefinger into his temples while attempting to temper Annette’s enthusiasm with magical theory, Hubert understood the red marks that had appeared there.

For a while, it was as though they were back in the Academy, studying for their advanced exams. It was too hot for the Faerghusi heavy cloaks, at this point in the year, too hot for tea, even at night, and so they turned to magical light sources, rather than candles. Annette bounced from idea to idea, while Dorothea tempered her enough for Felix not to lose ground to the classical mages and Hubert to get a word in edgewise.

When the Faerghus duo left a few hours later, both parties seemed to have a better grasp on how and where to supplement Linhardt’s research. With the addition of two more mages to Linhardt’s original design, the alchemical process became a lot more like a summonsing or ritual casting than a simple potion.

Whether it would hold up once they presented their findings to Linhardt was a completely different story, but for now, it was a start.

“They seem happy,” Dorothea said as she closed the door behind them. “Felix doesn’t seem quite so much like a porcupine and Annette seems more confident in what she’s proposing for this.”

Hubert gave a quiet laugh. “I suppose they do.”

“I’m happy for them.” Dorothea paused at the coffee table to top off both of their wine glasses. “And it was lovely of Annette to bring this for me.”

“I’m still not clear on why,” Hubert said, even as he accepted his glass back.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a thank you.” Dorothea winked, though it was sort of undermined by the softness of her smile. 

“That cleared up nothing,” Hubert said as she took up her seat beside him again, “thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Hubie dear.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and this time it was Hubert’s turn to flush an embarrassed crimson. “That’s what that means.”

He stared down into his wineglass, crushingly aware that he was veering into uncharted territory. It was one thing to drink around Dorothea when there were other people around; it was quite another to deal with the full force of her alone.

And she’d gotten so… _familiar,_ lately. Her hands lingered on him now, her presence creeping ever-closer whenever she sat next to him. Hubert would have sworn he was reading too far into things, but Felix had made some comment the other day about it when she threaded her arm through his as they’d walked. _You are capable of standing on your own, aren’t you, Dorothea?_

And if there was one thing Felix was good at it, it was striking at the heart of a matter.

“I shall have actual work to do tomorrow,” Hubert said, “but if you’d like to keep discussing this, feel free to stop by sometime after your classes.”

Dorothea smiled over the lip of her glass, and Hubert was struck by how utterly breathtaking she was. He had seen many Dorotheas across the years—the student, with a jaunty hat and scandalously tall boots; the opera diva, with a face full of stage makeup and incredibly detailed costumes; the soldier, covered in grime and other people’s blood—but this one was probably his favorite.

The relaxed, genuine one, with no airs and no one to put on a mask for.

“I might stop by,” she said. “You just never know, with me.”

She winked at him, but something in his chest grew hollow again.

There was something that had scratched at the back of his mind, ever since she’d returned to Garreg Mach alone, and especially now that she kept creeping closer. It had been years since they’d seen each other regularly, years since they’d fought, slept, and eaten side by side with the rest of the Strike Force. And letters were certainly no substitute for a living, breathing person, but Hubert could have _sworn_ she’d been attached, last he’d properly seen her.

“Dorothea,” he said, “may I ask you something?”

“Oh.” Dorothea paused, her glass midway to her mouth. “ _That_ sounds serious.”

“I apologize if I’ve missed something,” Hubert said, figuring that was her go ahead, “but I could have _sworn_ the last time the Strike Force met in Enbarr, you had a serious date for the annual gala. Why haven’t I heard of her, since you’ve been back?”

Dorothea’s eyes quickly lost their mirth, and Hubert nearly took it back.

“You must mean Lucia, the blonde-haired woman,” she said, after a moment. “Yes, I did.”

Hubert struggled to put voice to his thoughts without simply spitting them out, like a certain Faerghusi he knew (well, several), but came up empty. 

“There’s no delicate way to ask it, so how about I just say it for you?” All traces of lightness were gone from her voice, now. “Yes, it was my hope to marry and grow old with someone who cared about me for _me._ Not the diva, not the war hero, but _me._ Dorothea. The orphan girl who just so happened to be overheard at the perfect moment.”

She sighed, and it was so pained, Hubert viscerally winced.

“But, as it turns out, the Goddess is cruel,” Dorothea added. “And that isn’t what happened. Lucia and I—”

“You don’t have to continue,” Hubert cut in, softly. 

Stunned, Dorothea’s jaw snapped shut, and she could only stare at him.

“I’m not looking for gossip. I simply asked because…” For a fraction of a moment, he considered tipping his hand. “…well, I can’t believe it. It’s nearly as unbelievable as the Crest Beast in the Cathedral, or Edelgard…”

This time when he winced, it was for his own pain.

Dorothea laid gentle fingers across his own decidedly less so. “I didn’t ask the other night at the pub because you seemed brittle enough to snap in my fingers, but what _happened,_ back home? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I did,” Hubert admitted.

Dorothea remained quiet so long, Hubert braved a look at her. She was looking at him with too much concern, too much pity, too much understanding. She knew too much, heard too much, caught too much, cared too much.

He jerked his hands away.

“Hubert, _please!”_ She startled them both with her outburst, and then added, much softer, “Please, it doesn't have to be this hard.”

He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at his hands, couldn’t look at himself. “Oh, but _doesn’t_ it?”

_“No!”_

“I am ever her loyal vassal.” The bitterness in his voice stunned even him. “The unfeeling Titanus responsible for everything sordid that won us the war. The stoic minister. Her bloody left hand. I know what they call me, in the streets of Enbarr. I’m the—”

_“Hubert!”_

His eyes snapped open, and suddenly Dorothea was before him, silent tears streaming down her face, hands shaking as she reached out for him.

“You _are_ ,” she said, her hands warm on the sharp planes of his face, “Hubert von Vestra. It doesn't matter what _they_ call you, that’s what _we_ call you.” 

Much softer, she added, “What _I_ call you.”

Her hands fell away once she’d determined he wasn’t going to look away again—and oh, there was no helping it, now. Hubert was well and truly staring, manners be damned, etiquette be damned, but he needed to _know_ something. 

“Dorothea,” he said, quietly, “why do you ask?”

She blinked a few times, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

“You asked why I look like I’ve seen a ghost,” Hubert said, studying her more intently than he had anyone in a very long time. “ _Why?”_

The corner of her lips quirked up in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

“Let’s say for a moment it isn’t, or that I’m too paranoid to believe this obvious answer. Whichever you prefer.”

She gave a soft, aching laugh. “You certainly are paranoid.”

“I do believe it saved your life on more than one occasion, during the war,” Hubert pointed out.

“You did.” He wasn’t sure how she managed to cry prettily—or silently—but she did. Rather than the blubbering mess he knew Bernadetta to be, Dorothea could easily still have been a tragic heroine onstage. “And I’m not sure I ever thanked you.”

But that facade was why he needed to know. “Dorothea, _please.”_

“Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?”

Hubert bowed his head, throat suddenly thick with too many things unsaid.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “It is. I’m sorry, for that.”

Hubert was _not_ prepared for the sudden weight of her beside him again, one leg thrown casually across his own as though she had every right to be there.

“I wish, more than anything else, that Edelgard had listened to me about you,” she said. “I watched you destroy yourself, too devoted to put the distance you needed to heal between you and her.”

“I was—”

“I know you were the Minister of the Imperial Household, or whatever they called it after that was deemed too old fashioned,” Dorothea interrupted. “But I also know you broke down in my dressing room over her wedding gown, and then scraped yourself back into your boots to face her again.”

Hubert grimaced, but Dorothea didn’t allow him to look away, her elegant fingers turning his face toward her and keeping him there. Although the night was already warm, her fingers were _searing._

“I told her _it didn't have to be this hard,”_ Dorothea said. “And do you know what she told me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“She told me that if you had a problem, you would come to her. That was how you had always been, so why would this be any different?” A bitter laugh broke through her tears. “I had to scramble to find a way to tell the Empress she was an idiot without actually telling her that.”

“You didn’t have to fight so hard for me,” Hubert got out. “It wasn’t worth it; I knew what I was getting myself into.”

She waved a hand in front of his face, and finally, he was released. “What part of ‘blinded by devotion’ did you miss?” 

“I suppose all of it.” He reached out, caught her hand, held onto it for a moment. “But you’re right; I am haunted, now. The ghost I saw was Edelgard’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the fic, [come hang out on twitter!](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the die is cast

Hubert learned very quickly that much of Linhardt’s research had been lost to his destroyed laboratory. The white mage frequently lamented that he _knew_ the answer to one of the various questions Annette or Dorothea posed, if only he could find that blasted notebook. And so Hubert quietly made plans with his Sorcery Engineers to scout Linhardt’s lab for anything recoverable.

When the third squad didn’t come back, Hubert wrote directly to the Empress and requested his Arrow of Indra be returned to him from the royal vault.

The drill-like lance had won them many a battle all those years ago, but, in solidarity with Ferdinand’s loss of the Spear of Assal and Edelgard’s loss of her Aymr, Hubert had allowed it to be taken and locked away. It wasn’t even a Heroes’ Relic, strictly speaking, as Hubert had no Crest. But the Empress had insisted that any and all memory of the blighted Crest weapons be removed, Twisted-tech included.

Hubert was not prepared for the relief he felt when he wrapped his hands around its hilt once again.

“I doubt they destroyed it,” Hubert said to Linhardt at one point. “Where else could they be keeping your work?”

The white mage had shrugged. “I don’t know, where else do they have a foothold?”

Hubert recalibrated his Engineers’ work, and suddenly Sylvain grew twice as important to the cause. He was intelligent, reliable, and knowledgeable about the current political climate everywhere that _wasn’t_ Old Adrestia. Every time he blew back into Garreg Mach, he brought with him more steadily more concerning news (and also small gifts, for Alessia and Alexander)—Holst Goneril was ill, leaving Fódlan’s throat uncomfortably ill-guarded; there was a large concentration of what he and Gehrman were fairly certain was Twisted folk, in what used to be Ordelia territory on through old Goneril territory; there were rumblings of discontent form Brigid when the Imperial royal family apparently snubbed the Prince’s thirteenth birthday.

He also brought with him complete chaos and more than a few late nights at the Pub, and Hubert wondered how Felix and Ingrid had withstood it, all those years. They were and had been aggressively practical people, so far as Hubert was aware.

The summer wore on, and Garreg Mach grew unbearably hot. Even for Hubert, Ferdinand, and Dorothea, who had grown up with Enbarr’s hot, humid summers, the muggy afternoons were stifling. The Faerghusi exiles kept to the shade and a few even became nocturnal, during the hottest days of the summer. Hubert grew used to meeting with Felix and Annette at odd hours of the night to go over whatever magical theory the woman had come up with.

Dorothea left for Enbarr for a while for a role reprisal in the Mittelfrank Company’s annual charity show, and Hubert felt her absence almost as acutely as he’d felt Edelgard’s, when he’d first arrived at Garreg Mach. Dorothea had become such a cornerstone in his life that meals in the mess and nights at the pub without her just felt lesser, somehow. 

Alexander settled in about as well as one could expect. There were a few students who summered over at Garreg Mach, typically due to work-study or lack of something to travel home _to,_ so he wasn’t completely forced to rely on Alessia or the Adults for company. More often than not, though, Hubert found him passed out in a stack of library books, apparently trying to catch up on years’ worth of tutoring in a summer.

Hubert frequently came across the little Dominic girl learning magic from or mama or swordplay from her Not-Uncle, as she’d taken to calling him. It reminded Hubert of Finnja’s early weapons training, back when Edelgard had handled it herself, and he wondered ambiently how his niece was doing. He really ought to write to her.

Markus von Engel came and went the entire summer, and Hubert could tell the man’s general whereabouts by how tense Felix and Annette were. He did his best to grant them peace of mind about her daughter, but it only went so far, these days, because everyone felt it.

There was a storm brewing on the horizon.

-)

It was almost a relief when the students returned in the fall, if only for the distraction.

“Good morning, Violet Owls,” Felix announced for the first time in months, striding into his classroom with his back straight and chin raised.

He was greeted with an excitable chorus of “Professor Fraldarius!”

They had grown over the summer. His kids were no longer kids but nearly men and women grown, not merely in appearance, but in demeanor--they were far more dour than last year’s excitable crop.

Felix wondered if they felt the oncoming storm, too.

He greeted them each by name, striding through the rows of his classroom, unable to keep from commenting on some of their most obvious changes.

“That haircut suits you, Ellie,” Felix told her as he passed.

She ducked her head, but no longer had long tresses of blonde hair to hide her blush beneath. “Thanks, professor.”

He pulled up short near the front of the room at the sight of Siegmund, who appeared to have sprouted nearly a full foot over the summer. “You,” he said, now forced to crane his neck to look at him. “You’re dead to me.”

Siegmund burst into bright laughter. “That’s what my brother says!”

Felix took his place at the head of his class as they settled out, and all was as it should be. But only for about the length of the period, after which Faustine came up to him once her classmates had deserted the room.

“Hi, Professor.” She remained soft spoken, but no longer stared at her feet as she spoke.

“Good morning, Faustine,” Felix said. “Welcome back.”

She smiled—or tried to, anyway. “Thanks, Professor.”

The silence between them grew, and Faustine began fiddling with the end of her braid. She’d lost the rest of the baby fat in her face, apparently, because the hairstyle that used to remind Felix of a young Ingrid now reminded him of a much, much older one.

Felix’s brow furrowed. “Is everything alright?”

Faustine loosed a spluttering breath. “Can you please move me away from Eberhard, in class?”

At the look Felix gave her, she added, much quieter, “We broke up, over the summer.”

“I see.” Felix was already rummaging around in his desk for the seating chart. “And whose choice was that?”

Faustine drew in a deep breath. “Mine.”

Felix slapped the seating chart onto his desk, and glanced back up to his student again. “Pick wherever you like. And, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”

Faustine physically recoiled. “You’re… proud of me?”

Felix nodded. “It’s not an easy decision, to stay or to go.”

Faustine remained visibly taken aback as she studied the seating chart. She chose a desk clear across the room and a row up, and Felix swapped her with its occupant in his notes.

“I’ll speak with Siegmund so you don’t have to,” Felix said. “And, Faustine?”

She froze, pulse pounding in her ears. “Yes, Professor?”

He folded his arms across his chest, and for a moment, Faustine could see exactly why her father’s men still spoke of Duke Fraldarius the Younger in hushed tones. “Is there a reason you’ve changed your uniform, this year?”

She opened her mouth to give the same excuse she’d given Ellie and Siegmund as to why she was wearing the uniform jacket instead of the vest, this year, but found it wouldn’t come out.

“Thought so,” he said with grim satisfaction. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you know where to find Professor Dominic and me if ever you do.”

For a moment, Faustine teetered on the brink of spilling everything from the past summer—starting with her father’s reaction to her certification and ending with returning with Markus after a very long summer.

But fear seized her throat, and she couldn't make the words pass through it.

“There’s also someone I’d like you to meet,” Felix said after a long moment. “He’s a first year Violet Owl this year, and the son of some good friends of mine. I’d like you for to keep an eye on him, since I think the Academy is going to be a hell of an adjustment for the kid.”

“Okay, Professor.” House Leader stuff, she could handle. “Sure thing.”

-)

It was a relief, to cross the Academy grounds alongside Professor Fraldarius, instead of alone. Markus and Eberhard wouldn’t _dare_ bother her, with him nearby, though it looked like Markus had wanted to try as they made their way to the gazebo where students liked to study, when the weather was good.

“Alexander,” Felix said as they approached, and the blond boy snapped his head up. “Can I pull you from your notes a minute?”

The boy turned a sheepish red, and closed his notebook on his quill. “Hi, Uncle Felix.”

Professor Fraldarius smiled, and Faustine nearly did a double take. “This is Faustine von Engel,” he said. “She’s the Violet Owl’s House Leader, this year. If you have any student questions about Garreg Mach, seek her out.”

“Hello.” Faustine gave a small bow and a polite wave. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Faustine,” Felix continued, “this is Alexander Edmund Graves. I fought alongside his parents for years, some before you were even born.”

Faustine laughed. “Doesn’t that just mean you’re old, Professor?”

Alexander laughed as Felix shrugged. “With what I lived though, honestly getting old is a miracle.”

Alexander made a face, and then turned to Faustine with a friendly grin. “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. I look froward to having someone besides Uncle Felix to bother.”

And at that moment, Faustine von Engel realized three things:

One, if Professor Fraldarius had known Alexander’s parents since before she had been born, that meant that Alexander was also a Faerghusi Exile, even if that meant something different for him than it did for the Professor.

Two, there was a very good chance her father and Markus would be angry if she befriended the boy.

Three, Alexander was _very_ handsome.

-)

Perhaps the only thing Felix had _not_ missed over the summer, besides grading, was the dreaded monthly staff meeting. He slunk in at five minutes ‘til, and nodded to his colleagues whom he hadn’t seen much of (if at all) over the summer, and deposited his sleep deprived ass into the seat beside Annette.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re nearly late.”

“But I’m _not,”_ he argued, setting a coffee that was eighty percent cream and sugar in front of her.

“Get a room,” Shamir teased from Felix’s other side.

“You're just upset he didn't bring you one,” Anette argued.

Felix rolled his eyes, and all three of them pointedly ignored when Markus entered the room in a fit of pique, mumbling something under his breath about his damnable younger sister. Felix felt his hackles raise, and beside him, Annette’s hands tightened on her coffee mug.

Hubert swept in a moment later, and seemed to bring in the autumn chill with him despite the fact that Garreg Mach was still far too hot for Felix’s liking.

“Good morning, all.” Hubert came to a stop at the head of the massive table. “I hope this summer and your return to the Officers’ Academy has found you well.”

Murmurs of “Good morning, Headmaster.” greeted him.

Hubert was, at the very least, offensively practical, and so the meeting set off at a quick clip. He reiterated the rules, the laundry list of expectations, the curriculum, and then turned to the calendar.

“Our Third Year students have been offered an excellent opportunity, thanks to General von Engel,” Hubert said.

Across the room, Markus sat up straighter, and Felix and Annette exchanged a wary look.

Hubert’s smile could barely be labeled as such. “Our Third Years have been given the opportunity to tour Edelweiss Hold, under the direction of its current general. The journey there and back will also serve as their practicum and a fair amount of the first semester. I ask that all of you with Third Year homerooms inform them of the upcoming trek.”

“That’s low, Hubert,” Shamir interjected.

Several brows furrowed deeply. If _Shamir_ were saying it…

“You _are_ their professors, after all.” Hubert’s not-quite smile was back. “Also you’ll be going with them. The Third Years will, unfortunately, miss parents’ weekend this year, but we want them there and back before the first snow.”

That meant they had to be leaving within a week or two, by Felix’s estimation.

“This is most excellent news,” Ferdinand said a little too cheerfully, bringing his hands together with a resounding clap. “Truly, they will be seeing the Empire at its finest.”

“It isn’t Fort Merceus,” Felix muttered.

But Hubert’s sharp ears missed nothing: “Not even General Ironfang could arrange _that,_ unfortunately. But the Silver Maiden is an excellent secondary option.”

The name struck Felix across the head. He’d missed it, the first time, since apparently the Imperials were no longer calling it by its proper name.

_Arianrhod._

He was going back to Arianrhod.

Hubert kept speaking, but he may as well have been underwater, for all Felix understood. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be _fucking_ happening. He had sworn never to set foot in that wretched place ever again, and yet here it was, laughing in his face and looming on his horizon once again. Felix had no desire to see where everything had fallen apart, let alone take a group of kids through it while the Imperials smiled at them and held daggers behind their backs.

Felix was only vaguely aware of when he threw up across the table, but he was definitely aware of Annette’s startled shriek and the ensuing flurry of activity.

-)

“I’m _fine,”_ Felix muttered for the fourth time as Manuela fretted back and forth across her infirmary.

“Are you certain you’re not ill?” she asked. “No history of hay fever?”

“I’m _fine!”_ Felix growled, and Manuela flinched. 

He winced at his delivery, but it was too late. “I will _not_ be intimidated in my own sick bay!” Manuela hissed. “You are clearly unwell, and I don’t care about whatever toxic Faerghus ideal of masculinity is making you snarl at me. I will _not_ tolerate—”

A knock at her door interrupted her, and, mercifully, Manuela went to answer it.

“Headmaster!”

“Hello, Manuela. May I speak with your patient, a moment?”

“Better you than me.” She swept out of the infirmary.

A very confused Hubert took her place, shutting the door behind him. “Do I wish to know?”

Felix was in no mood. “ _What,_ Hubert?”

Hubert paused. “Ah.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. 

Hubert took his time pulling a chair over to the sick bed Manuela had all but manhandled Felix into. “It’s not often we have professors throw up in the middle of a staff meeting, you know.”

“I am _fine.”_

Hubert could hear, very clearly, Dorothea’s _it’s okay to have feelings, you know,_ and wondered how in Fódlan that could come out in his diction and sound sincere. 

He settled for his guilt.

“I should have warned you about Arianrhod,” he said, quietly. “I apologize; I didn’t even think of…”

“Shut up,” Felix barked. “I’m not the Boar.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “The what?”

Felix stared down at his scarred hands. “Haven’t you heard me call Dimitri that, by now?”

“Is _that_ whom you’ve meant this whole time?”

Felix harrumphed. “He was mad, you know. At the end.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“So you don’t need to creep around me like I’m going to snap and strangle you. I’m not like him.”

That was a debatable point, but more importantly: “That is… _hardly_ what I’m doing.”

Something furious flashed in Felix’s good eye. “And what would _you_ call it then?”

It took Hubert a moment to find the word. “Concern.”

At that, both men appeared to be at a complete and total loss.

“I’m concerned,” Hubert continued, slowly, “that the news of the trip to Arianrhod made you so unsettled you vomited in the middle of a staff meeting. Do you want me to find you a substitute? You’re our only swordmaster at the moment; it wouldn’t be that hard to argue we need you.”

“No. I’m going.”

It rang through Manuela’s sick bay like the tolling of a bell.

“I’m not a damn child,” Felix added. “And I’m not leaving my kids in Markus’ hands.”

He was, after all, the Third Year Black Eagles’ Professor.

Hubert sighed. “To be quite honest with you Felix, I was rather hoping you’d say that.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Our dear Cillian has brought back some interesting news. There are, apparently, Twisted agents operating out of Arianrhod _directly_ under the Imperial Commander’s nose.”

“How do you know it’s under his nose,” Felix asked, “and that he’s not doing it?”

“He’d never condone it if he knew,” Hubert said firmly. “It’s Caspar.”

Felix’s eyebrows rose. “You stuck him all the way out in Arianrhod? Awful far from _civilization_ for a war hero.”

The way Felix said the operative word made Hubert wince in a way he didn’t wish to think too hard on. “I believe he requested it.”

“And why am I hearing that there a lot more to it than that?”

Hubert let out a spluttering laugh. “When _isn’t_ there?”

Felix’s own laugh was begrudging. “You said it, not me.”

That sat in silence for a moment, the two former royal hands.

“So what exactly is it you need me to do in Arianrhod?” Felix asked.

“Find and root out the disease, or, barring that, find evidence that I can use to do it.”

“Ah.” Felix’s grin was too tried to count as feral, exactly, but it was somewhere near there. “I love the easy jobs, right up until they go wrong.”

Hubert knew the feeling, but still, he pressed. “Can I count on you?” 

“Sure,” Felix said. “Just don’t be surprised when I bring you back heads instead of notes.”

Hubert made a face. “Just the signet rings would do, I think.”  


Felix rolled his eyes. “And they call _Faerghusi_ the ones who have no fun.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eagles soar.

The morning that the Third Year Violet Owls, Iron Cranes, and Black Eagles set out towards Arianrhod brought with it the first true autumnal frost. 

Felix herded his class in the marketplace, taking attendance, offering to check packs, and passing around the last of his coffee thermos. It had been a long time since he’d really had to travel, let alone had anything resembling a contract, and honestly, it was sort of invigorating to get out on the road again. Garreg Mach was stifling no matter what you called it, when you’d spent most of your adult life on the move.

Annette fretted about this and that as she took attendance for the Iron Cranes. Shamir was to remain behind (on Sorcery Engineer business, not that she’d said that), and so Annette, too, had been drafted into coming along. Not that it had taken much convincing from Hubert (she hadn’t been eager to let Felix go alone, after the vomit incident). The Iron Cranes were polite enough kids, but honestly, the lack of distraction only made her worry more for Alessia.

Mercedes would be keeping a weather eye on her, and Markus would be herding the Black Eagles on this trip, so Annette tried to reason that Alessia was safe as she’d ever been. Sylvain was also in and out, and would sooner fall on his own lance than allow harm to come to the little girl who was already beating him in chess.

Plus, Hubert and Dorothea would still be at the academy. It would be fine—right? It had to be.

“Let us move out!” called Ferdinand, sweeping into the marketplace alongside his warhorse. “Students, there are school horses tied up just up the way; some of you will need to share. No more than two to a horse, and professors, you’ll each need your own!”

Felix couldn't say he was thrilled that Ferdinand was heading this expedition, but he supposed it was better than he, Annette, and Markus staring each other down the entire time.

It would be fine. 

Right?

-)

“It’s so quiet without the Third Years,” Dorothea said to Hubert as they poured over Linhardt’s notes yet again, that evening in the headmaster’s suite. “Felix and Annette, too.”

“And Markus,” Hubert muttered.

“I’d be concerned about sending the three of them into open territory,” Dorothea admitted, “if not for Ferdinand and Faustine.”

The girl had taken to her assassin lessons like a fish to water, if Shamir and Felix were to be believed. Never before had either professor seen her with such confidence in her stride, such smoothness to her swordsmanship and steel in her spine. 

It had been the right choice, even if Ironfang didn’t think so.

“I’m sure Ferdinand is regaling them with tales of his wartime exploits at the fort already,” Hubert deadpanned.

Dorothea paused to look at him, and it was an effort to maintain his composure. 

“Be _nice,”_ she said, swatting at his hand as she passed. “You’re teasing the poor man when he isn’t even here to defend himself! Poor form, von Vestra.”

Once not so long ago, he could easily have flung some sort of light banter back. But as of late, he’d found it harder and harder to just… _talk_ with Dorothea. He kept finding himself at a disadvantage when she turned those damnably green eyes on him.

He supposed it meant he’d be alright if he never had to look at her, but that didn’t feel like much of a victory.

“Hubert?” Dorothea turned to look at him. “Are you in there?”

_Damn,_ he’d let the silence go on too long. “Yes, sorry. Just… starting at the same four formulae and hoping they’ll make sense, one day.”

Dorothea gave her thinking laugh, and settled onto the couch beside him. He was no longer sure what ‘polite’ distance meant with her, anymore, because more often than not, she’d lean against him as the candles burned low, or she’d settle herself against the other armrest and rest her feet on his knees, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that, more than most anything else, unsettled Hubert.

Mercifully today, she merely leaned into him as she tugged the notebook out of his hands. “So why don’t we go over what we know?”

They traded the same theories back and forth—maybe there was too much Beast and not enough Crest for Linhardt’s Lysithea Theorem (as they’d all taken to calling it) to work, or maybe the Beast was simply more magical than mundane, at this point, and needed an extra strength vulnerary.

Still, maybe it was something to do with Marianne herself, rather than Lysithea. Sylvain had told them that Twisted had never managed to take his or Lorenz’s Crests, even though they had managed to give the latter a second one like they had Lysithea and Edelgard. In two years of daily torment, all they’d managed to do to Sylvain was give him that Beast Arm.

Something wild had glittered in his eyes as he’d said that, and both Hubert and Dorothea had wondered if Felix knew what it meant.

Hubert and Dorothea talked until the candles burned low and the teapot had long since run dry, and even the awkwardness of their whatever-this-was faded in light of how _good_ it felt to work on an all-consuming project like this—even if the reason why was less than ideal. Hubert hadn’t felt such drive since the old strategy meetings in Edelgard’s war tent, where the Black Eagles Strike Force would bounce ideas off one another until one of them stuck.

“What if we swapped Cressida’s Theorem for the Eternal Equation?” Hubert supposed after a long bout of silence. “The magic quotients would then…”

He cut himself off, abruptly, when Dorothea’s head slumped against his shoulder.

He startled at first, hands reaching for magic and eyes searching for an intruder. It only took another moment or two to realize, no, she hadn’t been _attacked,_ she’d just finally passed out in exhaustion. The candelabra on the coffee table burned very low, at this point, the stubs casting her elegant face in deep shadow.

“You might have said something.” Hubert nudged her, gently. “Dorothea?”

She gave a sleepy, discontented noise that shot warmth right through Hubert’s chest, but did not seem to wake.

“Dorothea?” he tried again, nudging her a bit harder this time.

She did not stir.

With a soft sigh, Hubert marked the page he was on and leaned to set the book on the coffee table, careful not to jostle her. He cautiously eased himself back against the couch, and Dorothea moved against him again.

_Well,_ he wondered, warmth creeping up his neck, _now what?_

If she were Edelgard, he would know her nightly routine so well, he could walk her through most of it blindfolded. If she were Byleth, he could muddle his way through most of it, and ensure she’d been put to bed comfortably and in as little pain as possible. Finnja, even, he could manage, although he’d usually needed a glass of water after the third bedtime story.

But Dorothea? He had no idea what the rules were, with Dorothea.

Then again, one did not serve as the Empress’ vassal for decades and learn nothing. He could ensure at least an approximation of comfort, if nothing else. 

Hubert settled her gently against the couch, rather than him, so that he could work himself free. He couldn't bear the idea of leaving her to sleep on the loveseat, but he also had _standards,_ thank you. So off came her short boots, and Hubert set them neatly beneath the coffee table for her to find in the morning.

Unlike the Empress, there was no axe to worry about removing or braids to undo. However, Dorothea favored heavy jewelry—whether costume or not—and so Hubert took another moment to remove the collar from her neck, lest she injure herself on her own aesthetic. He tried not to dwell on where his hands were, as he had for years with Edelgard— _just like with Edelgard—_ and laid the piece above her boots, on the table.

He nudged Dorothea again, hoping she’d finally wake, but she merely mumbled at him again. With a sigh, Hubert gathered her in his arms and prayed he wasn't old as he felt, most days. She curled into his chest on the short walk over to his bed, and for a moment, Hubert found himself frozen in place.

She was warm and delicate as she curled against him, and for an absurd moment, Hubert was terrified she’d shatter to pieces in his arms. Even so, his body cried out for warmth as soon as they were parted, so loudly it would have been embarrassing if anyone else could possibly have known.

He settled the covers over her, and Dorothea snuggled into his bedding with a contented noise.

There. She was settled. No more or less than he’d have done for Edelgard herself.

The candle stubs were useless at this point; he pinched them out, one by one, making a mental note to replace them in the morning. He gave himself a moment for his eyes to adjust before digging quietly through his dresser drawers for something to sleep in. His limited knowledge of women’s clothing informed him that the dress Dorothea had been wearing today wouldn’t be overly comfortable to sleep in, but he also wasn’t about to attempt to rectify _that_ without her consent.

He padded silently across his quarters, hanging up his cloak where it belonged, straightening up their notes, finding where his spare blanket had wandered off to. He slid behind the privacy screen to change, left his boots by the door and his gloves on the coffee table, and all the while, Dorothea’s soft breathing accompanied him.

He had barely settled in for a long night of staring at his ceiling on a couch too short for him by a good foot when a crash came from over by his bed.

Hubert was on his feet at once, magic swirling in his hands.

“Hubie…?” came Dorothea’s voice, small in the gloom. “What’s going on?”

He noted the book from his bedside table now on the floor, and released the magic with no small amount of relief. “You fell asleep while we were working through Linhardt’s notes,” he told her.

“But why am I in your _bed?”_

Hubert felt his face warm over. Did she have to say it like _that?_ “I wasn’t about to make you sleep on the couch.”

“ _Hubie!”_ Her voice was hoarse, tired, and exactly what she’d always feared. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s truly not a problem…” Hubert began, only to cut himself off when Dorothea got to her feet.

She stared down at them, confused. “Where are my shoes?” 

Hubert cocked an eyebrow she probably couldn’t see, in the gloom. “I wasn’t about to let you get dirt all over my sheets. I have _standards,_ thank you.”

Even her laugh was hoarse, at this time of night. “Thank you, Hubert. You… didn’t need to do all that.”

“Again,” Hubert began, “it’s not a—”

But Dorothea appeared not to be listening. “Let me just find my boots, and I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t want to be a bother, I’m so sorry I…”

She stopped when Hubert suddenly took up her entire line of sight.

“Dorothea,” he said, firm and gentle, all at once, “look at me.”

She breathed deeply, and then did.

“If you truly wish to go,” Hubert said, quietly, “then allow me a moment to fetch my cloak and I’ll accompany you home. But honestly, Dorothea—you don’t have to.”

Had his room been lit by anything other than errant starlight, Hubert might have noticed Dorothea struggling not to tear up, the more information she got, and that that was the moment where she lost the fight entirely.

“Are you sure?” she managed thickly.

“Entirely.” Hubert’s smile was genuine, and more tentative than she remembered. “Go back to sleep, milady. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

A small smile tugged at Dorothea’s lips. “Now who’s tired?”

“Hmm?”

“You just called me ‘milady.’”

“Oh.” Hubert frowned. “Did I?”

“Yes,” said Dorothea with a soft laugh. “Did you do this for Edelgard?”

“Off and on, yes. She had a deplorable habit of falling asleep at the war table, and later her desk.”

Dorothea studied him for a moment. “And you’re _sure_ I’m not putting you out?”

“I keep spare blankets for a reason, Dorothea.”

This time it was her smile that was far shier than she intended it. “Okay, Hubie. Since you’re _so_ insistent. I’ll stay.”

She tried to tease, but it didn’t quite end up there. 

He smiled and _goddess,_ when has he gotten so handsome? “Goodnight, Dorothea.”

“Hubert!” She caught his arm before he turned away. “Might I actually trouble you for something to sleep in? This…” She glanced down to the metal corset cinching her waist. “...isn’t comfortable.”

“I, ah.” He coughed. “I can certainly try to find you something. Was there something specific you had in mind?”

“Oh, any of your sleep shirts will probably do,” Dorothea said. “You’re much taller than me.”

“Right.” He swallowed, audibly.

He wasn’t prepared when she stepped out from behind the screen, swallowed in a shirt of his that barely reached the tops of her thighs. Warmth shot through his chest again, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe.

“Much better,” Dorothea said, relief in her voice.

“I don’t understand why you subject yourself to such discomfort,” Hubert managed after a moment.

“It’s called _fashion_ , Hubie dear.” She caught his hand as she passed by him, and tugged. “Men never understand.”

“Dorothea?”

She frowned at him when he didn’t budge. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“You’re not sleeping on your _couch,_ Hubie. There’s plenty of space in your bed for the both of us.”

Dead.

Hubert was dead.

He had survived all the sneaking and backstabbing of growing up in Enbarr in the Von Vestra household, serving in Edelgard’s Unification War, completing countless assassination contracts and foiling even more attempts, deeply pained service to the Imperial Crown, and a subtle war with Those Who Slither in the Dark.

But Dorothea wearing _his_ shirt, her expression soft as she looked up at him in the darkness, was his undoing. He could _feel_ it, somewhere deep in his bones.

He had to look away. “It’s not proper.”

“If you’re going _that_ route, I should never have been in your quarters without a chaperone in the first place.” Her voice was exasperated and fond, all at once. “They’re already assuming it of me, so really, why would you bother sleeping on the couch when you have a perfectly good mattress?”

Hubert’s face shut down hard. “Who is assuming it of you?”

Dorothea stopped tugging. “Oh, you know. The rumor mill. They’ve assumed we’ve been sleeping together since this whole research project began. I figured it was as good a cover as any for…” 

She trailed off, stunned at his expression.

“I will set them straight,” Hubert growled.

“Hubert,” Dorothea said, physically taken aback, “don’t do _that._ It’s a perfect cover story.”

“One that requires you sacrifice far too much. _No_. I won’t allow it. I will—” He stopped when Dorothea squeezed his hand, much more gently this time.

“I appreciate that you want to look out for me,” Dorothea said, something warm and wet falling down her face again, “but if it helps take care of Twisted or set Marianne free, I’ll bear it gladly. You don’t need to allow anything; I’m choosing.”

“Besides.” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “They’ve always assumed I’m the whore, ever since _we_ were students. It’s hardly any different now.”

Hubert had no earthly idea what to do with this blind, unrestrained fury swelling in his chest. How dare they consider Dorothea as anything less than the kind, selfless, compassionate woman that he knew her to be? How could she allow such a thing?

Goddess preserve him, he was starting to sound like Ferdinand, and the next sentence out of his mouth was not going to help.

He posed her own question to her, refracted through fifteen years of this post war hell that served as Edelgard’s Adrestia, since it certainly wasn’t his: “And if I married you?”

Dorothea froze, a rabbit caught in the hunter’s sights. She recognized it, then. Hubert wasn’t sure if he found that to be a relief or not.

“That would certainly take the fun out of the rumor.” Her voice was strained. “But wouldn’t you say that’s a Meteor option for a Cutting Gale problem?”

“Not at all.”

Dorothea tried to breathe in deeply, but her breath hitched in transit. “Then, I would have to turn you down,” she said. “You’ve spent enough of your life serving other people. I won’t allow it anymore.”

“I’d be choosing,” Hubert said softly. “You wouldn’t need to allow anything.”

Dorothea shut her eyes, stunned. “In that case, I would have to turn you down because of me. I swore to only marry for love.”

_And if I loved you?_

It very nearly came out of his mouth, but Dorothea wasn’t finished:

“And _that_ would be marrying for politics. And I couldn’t possibly accept that, for either of us. We both deserve so much better than... _this.”_

Her voice broke on the last word, and so did her composure. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle any sound, grasping for something, anything, that could possibly save what remained of her dignity.

And then her forehead thumped across something warm and solid, and for the first time maybe ever, it was Hubert who drew her in close, and not the other way around.

“Hush, now,” he said, softly, smoothing back her bangs as she cried into the dark fabric of his shirt. “I’ve got you.”

Dorothea did not know how long he held her there.

-)

Hubert awoke in the dim, blue-grey light of the early morning alone.

He startled immediately to his feet, eyes raking the semidarkness for even a whisper of her presence. Had she walked home _alone?_ At what hour? After all those tears, had she run, ashamed? The very notion left an ache in his chest that Hubert could not name.

He nearly choked in relief when he picked out her maroon dress from last evening, carefully laid out across his couch, her jewelry still on the table. Her heeled boots were gone, and so was his cloak, and even half-asleep, it only took Hubert a moment to figure out where she’d be.

The air out on the Star Terrace was bitterly cold after the cozy warmth of his bed, but there she was, leaning against the railing, dwarfed by his cloak again. Hadn’t he already died last night? Did she have to kill him twice?

“You could have left a note,” he said to her, leaning against the doorframe. 

Dorothea startled. “ _Hubert!”_

He grinned at her, tiredly, from across the terrace. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

Dorothea gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Oh, I woke about an hour ago and wasn’t able to get back to sleep. I figured I would come out here for some air.”

“Well...” It was too early to be eloquent. “...do you want to come back? It’s freezing out here.”

Her laugh was a bit more genuine this time, though she tried to hide it behind her hands. “Your cloak is so much warmer than mine,” she said, “and, I, well—I didn’t expect you to wake.”

With a put-upon sigh, Hubert left the shelter of the doorframe and crossed the distance between them. He leaned on the railing beside her, their shoulders brushing. “So why the sleeping trouble?”

For once, she didn't lean into him. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Gold piece for your thoughts, then?”

For a moment, she said nothing, and fiddled with the clasp on his cloak. She felt his eyes boring holes in her, but Dorothea couldn’t make herself look over. Hubert was _entirely_ too perceptive to risk it.

“I was thinking,” she finally said, “that Edelgard isn’t nearly as intelligent as we give her credit for.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “Beg pardon?”

“If I had someone who cared about me _half so much_ as you clearly care about her, I wouldn’t be throwing them to the side the instant I found a spouse.” There was anger, buried deep beneath those words, but then she softened in quiet wonder. “I don’t think I’ve been put to bed _ever.”_

“That’s a lofty term for ‘making sure you don’t get dirt on my sheets,’” Hubert muttered, face warming over in the chilly morning air.

“Hubert, most anyone else would have simply had me sleep on the couch,” Dorothea said. “Maybe thrown a blanket over me. And most men I know would not have put themselves on the couch after deciding not to leave me there, either.”

“That’s just a sign you need better friends, ‘Thea.”

She laughed, bleakly. “Could be.”

Dorothea finally turned to look at him, and found him studying her intently in the pre-dawn light. Whatever she had been about to say fumbled from her grasp and was lost somewhere in the chasm between him and her.

“So, thank you,” Dorothea finally said, looking away again. “For caring.”

Despite the feather-light touch he used to turn her head back towards him, his fingers burned into her cheek. Dorothea knew he almost always wore gloves due to all the dark magic scars, but he wasn’t now, and his touch was searing. 

“I could do no less,” Hubert said, quietly.

They seemed to have the same thought at the same moment, because Dorothea couldn’t be certain if she leaned to kiss him, or he to kiss her. 

‘Sweet’ was not a word anyone would have ever used to describe Hubert von Vestra, and yet, Dorothea could think of no other word to describe him now. He didn’t immediately try to shove his tongue down her throat or grope her like any number of sub-par kisses she’d had in the past. She simply was rooted to the spot by a few scarredfingers and lips that filled the spaces between hers like they’d been made to. The urge to reach out surged through her, to tangle her fingers in his black hair, to find out _exactly_ what would happen when a man as tightly wound as Hubert came undone.

But then he broke them apart with a very shy— _shy!—_ grin, and she melted. 

She was dead. Completely done for.

“Don’t kiss me now,” Dorothea said, breathless. “I’m sure my breath is _terrible.”_

This time it was definitely Hubert who leaned in, because Dorothea hadn’t been prepared for the jolt to her heart when she felt his grin against her lips. 

“Seems fine to me,” he said as he pulled away. “Better than fine, even.”

That soft smile was breaking the dour landscape of his face into something much gentler, much younger, much more like what he could have been. Dorothea wondered if he’d smiled like this with her before, and why she hadn’t noticed.

But there was something else she needed to know, before she entertained even a thought of _whatever this was._ “What are you doing, Hubert?”

“Caring about you.” 

His answer was immediate, resolute. She opened her mouth but Hubert held up a hand in surrender.

“And we can have as serious a conversation as you like about it in about three hours, and preferably over coffee,” he added. “But right now, I would rather like to sleep.”

Dorothea wasn’t sure when she’d started crying again, but all she knew now was that it wouldn’t stop. “You have it backwards,” she tried to tease beneath the tears streaming down her face. “You’re supposed to do the date first, and _then_ fall into bed.”

“Apologies,” Hubert said lightly, “I confess, I’m not terribly good at this.”

Dorothea tried to scrub at her face with the heel of her hand. She hadn’t washed off last night’s makeup, and so her hand came away smudged with color. “I can teach you.”

She froze when he took her hand in his, brushing his lips against her knuckles. “I’ll hold you to it.”

_How dare you be so smooth at this hour of the morning!_ Honestly, it was just offensive. “Well, your first lesson will be how not to steal all the blankets.”

“My lady, you _wound_ me! I am the very picture of ‘respectable sleeping partner.’”

Dorothea’s laugh followed them back into the hallway, just as the first golden rays of sunrise began to creep over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik I'm running behind on responding to comments, but I promise I'll get to everyone! Y'all are the best
> 
> Happy Mardi Gras!
> 
> [come hang out on twitter for extra nonsense](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they arrive in Arianrhod

_Arianrhod_.

Its gleaming façade rose up from the landscape like a nightmare from the morning mists of Deirdru. Felix had been dreading the approach for days now, and not even his students’ incessant chatter and Annette’s soft prodding could bring him out of his dissociated state.

“Are you alright, Felix?”

Felix’s hands snapped the reins, and his horse whinnied in protest. He swore under his breath at the cursed creature, and then added, louder, “Fine.”

Ferdinand was staring at him now, bringing his horse adroitly around so that they were riding two abreast. “You seem a bit dazed, my friend.”

“That’s a stretch,” Felix muttered.

“Felix, if you need to—”

_“No.”_

Ferdinand physically reeled back, and his mount began to follow the movement until he moved to correct it. “Well, we should arrive around midmorning; I’ve sent Markus ahead to inform Caspar.”

Felix nodded, dully. “I’ll round up the Violet Owls.”

Ferdinand nodded, concern still deep in his furrowed brow—“Err, right, then.”—and then he was off to inform Annette.

With an irritated sigh, Felix spurred his horse forward. He collected his homeroom from their various pockets scattered across the march, until they were all in roughly the same vicinity.

“Listen up, Violet Owls!” he called, and at once, their chatter ceased. “We’re approaching the fort, and should reach it by midmorning. While we’re there, you’re to be on your best behavior. That means no bickering, no picking fights, and _no sneaking off._ Am I understood?”

“Yes, Professor Fraldarius!” they chorused.

“Good,” said Felix. “Carry on, then.”

He expected them to splinter off again, but most of them stayed clumped together just ahead of him—except for Faustine. She brought her horse around in much the same way Ferdinand had, and Felix braced for yet another conversation.

“Professor!” she called over. “I have a question!”

“Yes?” It came out harsher than intended.

But Faustine had long since learned not to let it deter her. “It wasn’t originally named Edelweiss Hold, right? That had to have been named for the Empress.”

“I’d imagine so,” Felix said.

“What was it originally?” 

Despite Ferdinand having just told him Markus was sent ahead, Felix still reflexively checked his vicinity before telling her, “Arianrhod.”

“Arianrhod,” Faustine murmured, testing out the unfamiliar word. “Does that mean something?”

Felix let out a deep breath, and stepped around it for a moment. “You see those walls, up ahead?”

Faustine nodded. “I didn't realize the fort was white?”

“It’s not,” Felix said, “it’s grey—hence the nickname, the Silver Maiden. It’s named for an ancient Faerghusi goddess, worshipped before the land was even Faerghus.”

Ingrid had always held a particular fascination for the Silver Maiden—the goddess, that is. _It was said she controlled the wheel of time,_ she’d said all those years ago when they’d ridden up this very approach. _Don’t you think that’s interesting?_

_Not overly,_ Felix had said. _It sounds like Sothis’ Divine Pulse, honestly._

_That’s probably where that legend came from,_ Ingrid said. _If the heathen goddess could control time, why not the ‘true’ one?_

He’d had little patience for Ingrid’s philosophical questions after Glenn had died—particularly in war time—but Felix found himself willing to give up his sword arm to listen to yet another ethical dilemma, if only it meant Ingrid were still here with him.

She’d have made an excellent professor.

“Professor?” Faustine’s voice jolted him out of his dismal train of thought. “Are you with us?”

Felix shook himself like the dog the Adrestians called him. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Faustine didn’t look like she believed him.

-)

The years had not been kind to Caspar von Bergliez.

If Ferdinand were to be believed, the Black Eagles’ brawler had gone grey long before he’d even hit thirty. He stood just before Arianrhod’s gates to greet the Officers’ Academy students, and his voice seemed somehow less booming than before, the lines in his face much deeper.

_Tired,_ Felix realized with a jolt. The Titanus dynamo that was Caspar was _tired._

“You’ve all arrived at an _interesting_ time _,”_ Caspar said, scratching at the back of his neck. “Governor Cornelia just arrived last night for a surprise visit.”

Fury burst in Felix’s chest so acutely that it knocked the wind out of him. The witch who had conned her way into the royal family’s good graces had turned out to be nothing more than an Imperial pawn as soon as the chips were down. It boiled Felix‘s blood to think that he, and his father, and Dimitri, and _his_ father, had walked beside her in the royal palace for years. The king and the duke had welcomed her council on all things magic that were beyond Rodrigue’s ken. 

And this was the thanks they got.

“What is _she_ doing here?” Felix growled. 

“I would assume checking on the state of their defenses,” Annette said, laying a gentle hand on his shaking ones. “Hopefully we won’t have to make nice.”

Never mind that _Felix_ had never been any good at that, _Annette’s_ jaw was physically clenched. 

A moment later, Felix remembered that Dominic had been the first province to fall to the Empire, and that Annette’s uncle had been forced to bend the knee or be annihilated. The former Baron had orchestrated the fight of Annette’s life just to pass on Crusher without arousing suspicion.

_For all the good it ended up doing us,_ Felix thought blackly. He wondered if the Dominic Heroes’ Relic were moldering away in some Imperial vault somewhere, or if Twisted were using it to inflict yet more unspeakable horrors on people.

The realization did nothing to improve his mood.

He and Annette were some of the last to pass through the massive gates to the city-fort, and suddenly Felix found himself standing in one of his most recurring nightmares.

_“When they come for us, give no quarter,” Rodrigue said._

_He sat regally atop his warhorse, holy lance in hand and magic at the ready. It had been a long time since Felix had seen his father in proper war attire, like the fierce Holy Knight he actually was, rather than the mild-mannered Duke he pretended to be._

_“As if I could do any less,” Felix muttered up at him._

_Felix stood, as ever, firmly on the ground. He had both his swords in their sheathes— silver for mages, levin for knights—and the Aegis Shield firmly secured on his arm. The bone-white shield had just about taken up permanent residence there, these days. The bloody red crest stone winked at him from its niche on the backside, the Fraldarius Crest just barely visible in its depths. It pulsated faintly in the early morning light._

_Rodrigue drew in a breath. “If things go wrong today…”_

_“Shut up,” Felix growled. “Neither of us are dying today.”_

_Rodrigue sighed. “We must pray for victory and prepare for defeat, Felix. You know this.”  
_

_It was rumored that the Imperials were bringing some new war machines to the battle—Titanus, they called them. It was the last thing the thinned Kingdom forces needed: yet another monster to throw too many bodies at._

_The Crest Beasts were already bad enough._

_“If things go wrong today,” Rodrigue began again, and this time Felix did not interrupt him, “take Ingrid and ride for Fhirdiad.”_

_At once, Felix bristled. “I’m not deserting the fort.”_

_“Yes, you_ will _,” Rodrigue said firmly, “but only if our defeat is inevitable. They’re taking out every general they get their hands on, and if Arianrhod falls, the only place left to stand against them will be Fhirdiad.”_

_At once, Felix understood. “Defend our mad king your stead, you mean.”_

_“He isn’t mad,” Rodrigue said. “If anything, his state was inevitable. The boy is too kind for his own good.”_

_“He swears he sees_ ghosts,” _Felix snapped. “What else do you call it?”_

_“Grief,” Rodrigue said, quietly._

_A chilling breeze swept across the entrance square, and Felix tugged his fur-lined hood over his ears._

_“He’s the fucking king,” Felix finally said. “He doesn't have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity while we bleed for him.”_

_A moment later, a scout announced they’d spotted the enemy on the fort approach, and that would be the last thing Felix ever said to his father._

“Professor?” Ellie Mattingly was staring at him, concern in her mousy features. “Are you okay?”

She was stage-whispering to him beneath whatever speech Caspar was giving about Arianrhod and its defenses. 

“I’m fine,” Felix muttered to her. “Pay attention.”

“And these ballistae here,” Caspar was saying, patting the artillery fondly, “can be loaded in less than a minute by our archers.”

_Felix had been pushed back to the ballista line, taking over for one of the now-fallen archers. A grim sort of satisfaction swelled in chest that his so-called ignoble assassin training had turned out to be more helpful than his father’s faith magic, but it was hollow._

_He felled Imperial soldier after Imperial soldier, but still, more poured in through the Rodrigue-shaped hole in Arianrhod’s defenses. He needed more time, more troops, more leverage._

_Honestly, he needed a miracle._

_And where was Ingrid? He needed to find Ingrid._

“Professor Fraldarius?” Siegmund elbowed him, jolting him out of his memory. “You doing okay?”

Felix wasn’t sure why exactly he felt like throwing up again, but he did. “Pay attention, von Gehrig.”

“And here,” Caspar announced, “are our mages’ ballistae. These magic orbs can take out a cavalier at thirty paces, or so the mages inform me.”

_“INGRID!” Felix had shouted, his voice carrying across the battlefield and hopefully to the Falcon Knight’s ears._

_“A LITTLE BUSY!” she shouted back after far too long a moment._

_She swooped down on yet another Imperial soldier, running him through with Lúin without remorse. Blood dripped from the Heroes’ Relic in stained rivulets, blotting her Pegasus’ hide._

_“WE HAVE TO GO, NOW!” Felix shouted back up at her._

_“WHAT? GO WHERE?”_

_Tears had streamed down his face as he told her the truth that had not yet reached the back line:_

_“ARIANRHOD IS FALLING!”_

_Behind him, a Titanus slowly rumbled their way._

“Our magical defenses here are truly the shining jewel of Imperial Engineering,” said a voice that most definitely did not belong to Caspar.

She hadn’t aged a day, nor had her style. Her dress was so low cut as to be nearly indecent, her hair as fiery red as it had ever been. She walked with languid grace, her voice something of a purr, and all of it set Felix’s teeth on edge as much as it ever had.

Cornelia Arnim, the Imperial Governor of what was once Faerghus.

It was a _good_ thing Felix didn’t have a bow on him, or he may well have shot her in full view of his students and all the guards of Arianrhod.

The inevitable six shots to his back would have been worth it.

“Governor Cornelia!” Caspar was evidently uncomfortable. “I wasn’t expecting you out here.”

Her smile was predatory; was Felix the only one to see that? “Oh, I heard our little fledglings from the Officers’ Academy were here, and I wanted to come greet them myself.”

Felix didn’t hear the rest of what she said. He didn’t hear the end of her excuses as to why she was here, didn’t hear her overly sultry voice purr about this defensive feature or that one, didn’t hear her deceptively light footsteps as she sauntered up the stairs to meet Caspar beside the mages’ ballista orb.

As he sprinted for the forest just beyond the fort, Felix Hugo Fraldarius didn’t hear anything at all.

-)

Faustine didn’t so much notice the professor leaving as much as the professor was simply _gone._

“Where’s Professor Fraldarius?” she hissed towards her classmates.

Siegmund whipped around almost comically quickly, glancing this way and that. “Wasn’t he right here?”

“He didn’t look well,” Ellie whispered.

_Arianrhod,_ he’d called the fort. It was in the territory of old Faerghus, and when she’d asked him earlier about it, a pained, faraway look had crossed his good eye. She knew that Professor von Aegir had fought here during the war, but her stomach twisted as it occurred to her that Professor Fraldarius had probably been here then, too.

“Ellie,” Faustine hissed, “go get Professor Dominic. I’m going to go look for him.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” hissed a new voice. “We’re _supposed_ to stay with the group.”

Faustine glared at Eberhard with all the fury in her heart. “Well then, you’d better not tell anyone you saw me leave.”

And she slipped away from the Officers’ Academy huddle.

_The first rule of assassination is study your target,_ Professor Fraldarius had taught her.

What did she know about their Professor? He was from Faerghus, he had once been a duke, and he loved Professor Dominic and her daughter. But beyond that, he was fierce, and he was proud, and had never admitted anything ever hurt him, even when training accidents left him with welts and bruises. 

_Where would a wolf go to lick its wounds?_ She wondered idly.

_The second rule of assassination is don’t get caught._

He’d snuck away before anyone had even noticed he was gone, and Faustine hoped to whatever god was listening that she had, too.

_The third rule is, for the love of the Goddess, get the damn job done._

Faustine slipped between early-morning shadows, avoiding guardsmen and watchful eyes, until she stood in the entrance square again. Ellie had bothered him here, jostling him out of whatever place he’d mentally disappeared to. 

No, he wouldn’t retreat here.

Faustine crossed beneath the portcullis, keeping a sharp eye out for a streak of blue against the greens and just-barely-there reds and golds of the surrounding forest.

_If you were Professor Fraldarius, where would you hide?_ Would he find a pocket of the forest to grieve in peace? Retreat to the horse stables where he would be unlikely to be bothered?

_No, those are too obvious._ If she were truly thinking like the professor, then she would be hiding in plain sight, where she would simply be passed over. It was probably how he’d survived all that time between the Unification War and the Enbarr Accords.

She whipped back around, now facing Edelweiss Hold, and spotted the telltale blue a few paces away from the gate. His head was tucked between his knees and he wasn’t moving.

“Professor Fraldarius!” Faustine called. 

His head snapped up, and there was something completely wild in his good eye.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarled—like a wolf, licking its wounds _._ “Get back with the class before you’re seen.”

“I wasn’t seen,” Faustine said firmly, “and _you’re_ not okay.”

Felix could only stare at the girl for a long, tense moment.

“Why would I be fucking okay?” he finally muttered. “I watched my father die here.”

The force of it struck Faustine over the head, and she dropped to a crouch, partly to speak to him, and partly because she wasn't sure she had the grit to stay standing. She knew that Duke Fraldarius the Elder had been known as the Shield of Faerghus, that he was militarily brilliant and a veteran fighter. A worthy opponent of the Empress, right up until he’d fallen.

She also knew that the capture of Edelweiss Hold by the Imperial army had been a major turning point in the war.

“I’m so sorry,” Faustine said, quietly.

“Don’t,” Felix growled. “It won you the war, didn’t it? Besides, you couldn't have been much more than a toddler.”

“I’m sorry the Headmaster sent you here,” Faustine corrected, and then something occurred to her: “And that Markus organized it.”

“I told Hubert to send me here,” Felix said. “You’re my students; it’s my duty to look after you.”

_Well then,_ Faustine supposed, _it's just as much ours to look after you._

“How can I help?” she asked.

“You can’t,” Felix muttered. “Go back to class before someone finds out you’re missing.”

“I told you I wasn’t seen,” Faustine argued. “Don’t just send me back to class because you don't want to talk.”

“Even if you _weren’t_ my assassin student,” Felix said, “it’s too dangerous for you to know more than the history books tell you. So don’t ask me about my father and _don’t_ ask me about the Fall of Arianrhod.”

He grabbed a fistful of her cloak. “For your own good, don’t _.”_

Faustine wanted to scream. Why was the Empress so hell-bent on changing history that her Professor couldn't even grieve properly? There were plenty of people alive now who remembered the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the Leicester Alliance—why was speaking of it somehow now a capital offense?

What did she gain from that?

Everything Faustine had ever read or heard about the Shield of Faerghus had been complementary, for an enemy general. But she had no idea what the man was supposed to have looked like, who he _was._

“Can you at least tell me if he looked like you?”

Felix sighed, and thumped his head softly against the wall of the fort behind him. “I’m his spitting image—except I have my mother’s eyes and a much better beard.”

“Get away from him, Faustine!”

She jerked her head towards the source of the noise, only to set her sights on Markus, looking very concerned, and Eberhard, looking very smug.

“Fuck you, Eberhard,” she snapped.

Felix’s hoarse cackle nearly drowned out Markus’ indignant “ _Sister!”_

Eberhard’s face remained impassive. “I told you we were supposed to stay with the class.”

“And I told _you_ that I was going to go find Professor Fraldarius.”

“And I’m telling _all of you_ to go back to the rest of the group,” Felix said in the kind of tone that expected his orders followed. “I’m not punishing Faustine for having compassion _or_ Eberhard for following orders. I just… need a damn minute.”

“You’re not setting a very good example for your students,” Markus sniffed. “Pull yourself together, man.”

Faustine’s fury flared, even as Felix said, flatly, “And what, exactly, do you think I’m trying to do?”

“Sulk,” Markus said. “The whole world knows that your relationship with the previous Duke was _fraught,_ to say the least. I fail to see why—”  
  


“Shut up, Markus,” Faustine snarled.

Astonishingly, he did.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, a snake uncoiling to striking range. “Did you know his father died here?”

“Of course I did,” Markus said after a moment. “I fought in the war.”

“Then _why_ would you arrange to bring us here? To _gloat?”_

“This was an incredible Imperial victory!”

“Sure, which means it was an incredible Kingdom _tragedy._ Why would you bring Professor Fraldarius and Professor Dominic here? To remind them of the _might of the Empire?”_ She spoke the words like a curse. “They know, Markus. They _have_ to know.”

Tendons stood out in Markus’ neck. “ _You_ are out of line, young lady!”

“No she’s not,” came another voice.

None other than the Imperial General von Bergliez himself now stood beneath the portcullis, arms folded across his barrel chest and ordinarily cheerful countenance thunderhead dark.

Markus blinked a few times at him, stunned. “Weren’t you giving the tour?”

“I was,” Caspar said, “but Governor Cornelia was doing such a fine job, I figured I’d see where my audience kept wandering off to.”

“Four _Saints,”_ Felix swore, “am I really that bad of an assassin, these days?”

“Oh, I didn’t see _you_ leave, Felix,” Caspar said. “I saw Lieutenant Von Engel and General von Schmidt's son leave.”

He stood toe-to-toe with Markus now, and despite being far shorter than the Lieutenant, Caspar was not the one who appeared dwarfed. “When I agreed to let the Officers’ Academy tour Edelweiss Hold,” Caspar continued, “one of my stipulations was that _you_ stay where I can see you at all times.”

“I had a _situation_ to handle,” Markus argued.

“That you could easily have given to Annette or Ferdinand,” Caspar said flatly. “At least _they_ wouldn’t gloat over a grieving man.”

“That is _hardly—”_

“Besides, Hubert von Vestra is way smarter than you _or_ me,” Caspar continued, as though Markus hadn’t interrupted. “If he trusts Felix to teach at the academy, then I see no reason why I can’t let him find a relatively private place to pull himself together.”

Markus’ facial expression grew stony. “Why, General von Bergliez, is that _fraternization_ I hear?”

A vein in Caspar’s temple throbbed. “If you attempt to court martial me, then I will counter-court martial _you,_ and then we’ll both have a headache.”

They stared each other down, the two Imperial soldiers of very different sorts.

“You can't simply throw your weight around because you were on the Black Eagle Strike Force,” Markus hissed.

“Nah,” Caspar agreed, “but I can ‘cause this is my fort. Take your students back to the group, and I’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”

“But General von Bergliez,” Markus said, mock-innocently, “then I would be leaving your sight.”

Caspar’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t _test_ me, Lieutenant.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Markus huffed. “You heard the man, students.”

“Faustine,” Felix got out, and all eyes turned to him. “Stay where I can see you.”

She nodded—“Right, Professor.”—and went to go stand on the opposite side of the portcullis.

A very irritated Markus von Engel swept back inside, Eberhard right behind him.

For a moment, Caspar merely stared down their retreating backs. But then he turned to Felix, and dropped onto his haunches.

“Hey there, Felix.” His bright, cheerful grin was back—or at least, an approximation of it. “Long time, no see. You want to tell me why you just contradicted me?”

“That’s her ex-boyfriend and shithead older brother,” Felix said. “I’m not sending her back with them.”

“Oh.” Caspar looked taken aback, and glanced over his shoulder to where Faustine dutifully pretended she couldn't hear them. “That’s the littlest von Engel?”

“Yup,” Felix croaked. “Faustine.”

“She looks more like her mama,” Caspar said thoughtfully. “No wonder I didn’t recognize her.”

Felix grunted at him, and hung his head between his knees again.

For a moment, Caspar said nothing. But then, “I can believe Markus set this up to throw his weight around in more than a few ways, but I can’t believe Hubert made you come here. I know he knows about—”

“He didn’t,” Felix interrupted, without looking up. “I just refused not to. These are my students; they’re _my_ responsibility.”

Caspar clapped him heavily on the shoulder, and Felix was startled out of his defensive ball. “Spoken like a Faerghusi!” Caspar laughed, but then his face grew more serious. “Are you doing okay? Do I need to get you anything?”

Felix couldn’t believe his ears. “Don’t you have better things to do than fuss over me?”

Caspar shrugged. “I mean, probably. And don’t take this the wrong way, but beyond the fact that I still think training rooms feel weird without you in them, it’ll piss off Cornelia.”

Felix’s hoarse laugh cut through the mid-morning fog. 

“Where else are you taking the kids?” Felix asked after a long moment’s silence.

“They’ll eat in the mess and sleep in the barracks,” Caspar said. “And other than that, maybe an armory or two.”

Felix drew in a deep breath. All places he’d been, but nothing near as painful as the front fucking entrance. “Alright,” he muttered, cracking his neck this way and that. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Caspar got to his feet alongside him, his genuine smile back though tinged with grief. “You always were a fighter.”

“I don’t exactly know any other way to be,” Felix said.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Twisted miscalculate

Annette and Ellie had arrived in the entrance square at the same time Felix, Caspar, and Faustine did, and Annette was two steps shy of livid.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren't feeling well? That you fought in this exact spot? That you were having a _panic attack?!”_

“Easy, ‘Nette,” Felix said, holding his hands out in surrender.

“Don’t you ‘Nette’ me!”

Faustine, Caspar, and Ellie exchanged the same look, and side-shuffled away from the brewing argument.

“It wasn’t your burden,” Felix said roughly. “I’m supposed to make your life easier, not more difficult.”

“That goes both ways!” Annette flung her hands wildly, as though spellcasting. “What if Faustine hadn’t found you first, and Markus or Cornelia had?”

“It’s just a panic attack; I can defend myself.”

_“Felix Hugo Fraldarius, you are missing the point!”_

Annette was shaking in her rage, but more than that, she was crying.

Why was she crying?

“You don’t have to fight everything alone just because it’s what you’re used to,” Annette got out. “For the Goddess’ sake, let me help you!”

Felix could only stare at her, uncomprehending. “Why are you angry?”

“What do you mean, why am I angry?” Annette’s face contorted, confusion written across the lines of her brow. “You’re shutting me out!”

Felix blinked. Is that what she called it?

Annette stared at him for another long moment, and then sighed and drew him into a bone-crushing hug. “We aren’t in Faerghus anymore. What killed Dimitri and your brother doesn’t have to kill you, too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix muttered into her hair. “I am the least chivalrous, Goddess-fearing person you know.”

“No, you’re not,” Annette said, softly. “You only think you are.”

-) 

Annette fussed over him all through the rest of the afternoon. She fussed through dinner in the mess, and even got his students in on it, too. It was a relief to finally settle the students into the barracks, if only because that meant he could also finally go to bed and put this waking nightmare behind him.

Caspar had been kind enough to make room for the professors in the officers’ quarters, rather than the barracks, and so it was at least marginally quieter when Felix, Annette, Markus, and Ferdinand bedded down for the night.

Not that it made Felix’s job any easier.

_With your knowledge of the fort, you’re a perfect candidate,_ Hubert had said. _I know Twisted are hiding_ something _there, and I need to know what. Caspar may be a loose-lipped drunk, but he isn’t dumb enough to bring the axe down on his own neck._

And so Felix stared up at the ceiling of Arianrhod, some fifteen years after it mattered, and wondered what his father would have thought of him, now. Hubert was arguably even less “honorable” than Felix’s “shameful” certification in assassin.

And yet, all these years after Arianrhod had fallen to the Imperials, who was still here, to make it fall back to the Kingdom?

(It wasn’t the Holy Knight.)

Felix waited until the breathing around him stilled and the night settled in to rise once again. He pulled on his soft, hunter’s boots and spared his cloak only a sad parting look before slipping out of their shared space and into the hallway beyond.

The fort was just as quiet at night as Felix remembered from his many, many sleepless pacings of its halls as a young man. He wondered, absently, if the training ground sand was still as thin as he remembered. Maybe he ought to lull everyone into a false sense of security and just go thrash a few training dummies, for a while?

_No. Finish the mission._

If he were a warmongering cultist with an obsession with Crests, where would he keep things he didn’t want uncovered? The obvious answers were, of course, right out—offices, bedrooms, and hard-to-reach places.

Caspar was most likely still himself, given this morning’s display, and although Felix knew he had married Hilda at some point during the Gautier Rebellion, he’d yet to see hide nor hair of the Goneril woman. There had been a wyvern with ribbons threaded through its horns in the stables, so she had to be here.

Perhaps Hilda was the imposter, then?

There was also the matter of the officers Markus had made a show of recognizing and sitting down to dinner with, in the mess hall earlier. Faustine had rolled her eyes across the way and immediately launched into a story with Ellie, so Felix had to figure the elder von Engel wasn’t merely putting on airs, but actually _knew_ them.

But those men could have been anyone, in the standard-issue Imperial armor.

_Think, Fraldarius!_ He had to be missing something; Twisted were good, but they weren’t _that_ good. And moreover, they were pissed off that Linhardt had tread so close to their chief secret, or so Hubert’s theory went. Felix couldn't say he disagreed with the dark mage’s logic.

He also supposed that he was operating under the assumption that Twisted had only impersonated one lynchpin. From what Felix knew of magic, the body snatching was likely higher-level, and thus required a suitably talented mage to perform. So while it was unlikely that they’d snuck some of their own into every single officer’s position in Arianrhod, it wasn’t impossible. It would certainly leave them vulnerable if the ruse were to be discovered, as well—but wasn’t _that_ the question.

Voices began to echo in the hall in front of him, and Felix immediately flattened himself into the nearest alcove. He hoped they wouldn’t turn this way, because he was fresh out of excuses if someone found him.

“...now, you mustn’t linger, darling,” came a silky purr. “She’s in a terrible state.”

“I suspected as much,” came Ferdinand’s voice. “But I have to know.”

The first voice tsked, and Felix placed it as Cornelia. “You’re just _so_ upstanding, aren’t you, dear?”

“ _Someone_ has to be a noble.”

Cornelia’s shush trailed down the hall at the crossroads. “That was rhetorical, von Aegir.”

_What in the frozen hell is Ferdinand doing with Cornelia at this hour?_ Felix drew in a tired breath, and then cracked his neck first one way, then the other. _This is what you get for thinking offices were too obvious._

He tailed them, flitting around corners and in alcoves, following their voices as they floated down the hall. The snippets of conversation Felix managed to catch illuminated absolutely nothing, but it certainly _sounded_ like Cornelia was leading Ferdinand to the infirmary—right up until she turned left instead of right at a cross, and suddenly they were heading towards the crypts.

It was all so melodramatic, Felix half-wondered if they’d taken notes from the opera.

He was forced as close as he dared when Cornelia halted at the crypt door and stuck her hand down her shirtfront. Ferdinand made an uncomfortable noise and pointedly looked away, and Felix absently wondered what the point was. It wasn’t like the woman’s dress was particularly modest to begin with.

A moment later, she withdrew a small iron key, and fitted it into the crypt door. It was about then that Felix had the good sense to duck back behind the wall he’d been creeping around. 

He crouched there in the deepest pits of Arianrhod, counted to ten once in common, and then once in Old Faerghusi for good measure, and then chanced a look around the corner.

The coast was clear, and so Felix slipped from the relative safety of the corridor and padded towards the crypt door. 

It had never been locked during his and his father’s tenure, so far as Felix could remember, but he supposed it had been wartime, then. There would have been little point in locking it to turn around and unlock it twenty minutes later.

The padlock fell apart easily between his dagger and the lockpick that lived in his boot, and Felix counted to ten again (just in common, this time), checked his tail, and then disappeared into the crypt beyond.

The musty smell of old wood and rotting bones hit him full force, and Felix immediately moved to cover his nose and mouth with his shirt. _Well now,_ he mused grimly, _these haven’t been moved out like they’re supposed to be._

The Crypt at Arianrhod was meant to be a temporary vessel for casualties and final resting place only for unknown soldiers. It wasn’t meant to house this many remains, near as Felix could tell, for they were stacked several high in the alcoves on both walls.

Hadn’t the Imperials returned the bodies of his fallen brethren, after Arianrhod fell?

As he drew deeper into the maze of graves, Felix realized no, decidedly not, and it struck him as incredibly odd. Ferdinand himself had led the invading force into Arianrhod, and he was the only person Felix knew that tied with his father for the crown labeled ‘entirely too concerned with honor and duty.’ 

So why hadn’t he returned the Faerghusi remains back to Fhirdiad? It was one of the oldest provisions in the Fódlani rules of engagement. What did he gain by keeping them here, besides desecration of the dead? Felix shook himself of the thought like the dog they called him, and then he smelled it.

_Fresh blood._

It had a distinctly metallic smell wholly unlike the decay of the rest of the crypt, and although Felix’s instincts screamed at him to fall back, he pressed forward.

It was a good thing he was already breathing through the fabric of his undershirt, or he might have retched when he pushed open a side door and discovered the source.

In a small side room off the main antechamber, probably meant for morticians to prepare bodies for burial, a little girl lay on what Felix could only assume was an operating table. She looked feverish, her red hair plastered to her forehead, and her small fingers curling into fists as she whimpered. She didn’t have any open wounds, near as Felix could tell, but he knew the scent of blood better than any hound, at this point in his life.

Her eyes snapped open at Felix’s approach, and he saw that they were an uncomfortably familiar pale green.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she got out, in a voice more ragged than Felix’s had ever been. “They won’t like you being here.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “Who won’t?”

“Us, darling,” came a silken voice from behind him.

A sharp pinprick stung his neck, and Felix saw nothing more.

-) 

The following morning at breakfast, Felix stared absently into his porridge. He barely seemed to notice when he reached for the honey instead of the bowl of chopped walnuts, and his coffee remained largely untouched.

“Are you _okay_ , Felix?” Annette asked, reaching for his forehead. “You don’t have a fever, do you?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, swatting her hand away. “Just tired.”

From across the table, Ferdinand hiccupped into his tea mug. “I, er, noticed you get up, last night.”

“Figured I’d take a walk,” Felix said. “Not like I can get lost, in here.”

“You could have told me.” Annette made a face. “I would have gone with you.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

A burst of raucous laughter broke across the hall, and Ferdinand sighed into his tea. “I do not understand why Markus must always make such a fuss.”

“But Ferdinand,” Annette said, putting a mock-offended hand to her heart, “he’s found his friends. He simply _must_ make sure everyone knows it.”

“Von Engel has friends, huh?” Felix took a swig of coffee, and grimaced. “Who knew?”

“Certainly not Markus,” Annette muttered, and even Ferdinand snorted.

“So what’s today’s schedule, again?” Felix asked.

“Breakfast for another half hour or so,” Ferdinand said, “and then we round up the students and get them ready for a taste of fort life with morning training. Caspar has graciously allowed us to sit in with his troops this morning.”

“That was thoughtful of him,” Annette said.

“I quite agree,” Ferdinand said. “It will do our students some good to see where their paths may lead after graduation.”

As their conversation dissolved, Annette gradually became aware of three things:

One, Ferdinand was sweating, somehow, this chilly Autumn morning.

Two, Markus and his friends were growing louder.

Three, Hilda had arrived.

It was one thing to know that this postwar nightmare hadn’t been any kinder to the Alliance than to Faerghus, but it was another thing entirely to watch a greying Hilda Goneril von Bergliez stride right up to their table and thump a bottle of vodka on the gnarled wood.

For a moment, no one spoke between the four of them, and then Ferdinand’s manners won out: “Good, er, morning, Hilda.”

She smiled at him, but something about it seemed biting. “Morning, Ferdie.” When she turned it on Annette and Felix, it grew a touch more genuine. “And morning, Annette and Felix.”

“Good morning!” Annette chirped.

“Morning,” grunted Felix.

“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” Ferdinand gestured pointedly to the bottle of vodka that Hilda still had her pink-nailed fingers wrapped around.

“Nonsense,” Hilda said, “they’re from Faerghus.”

Felix snorted into his coffee, but Annette’s eyes grew wide as she placed where she’d seen that bottle before. “Hilda,” she said, her voice far, far quieter than was her usual, “is that what I _think_ it is?”

Hilda’s smile curled across her face. “Depends on what you think it is.”

Felix paused, coffee mug suspended in midair, as his brow furrowed. “Where the fuck did you get Charon vodka?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Hilda winked at him. “I’m not _really_ supposed to be doing this, but you’ll try it with me, won’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” Ferdinand said. “That is entirely…”

“Sure, Hilda,” Annette said, pushing her orange juice over to her. 

Felix’s brow came down hard. “Well shit, Annette.”

She offered a sheepish grin, but did not elaborate. Something in the way Hilda had sauntered over here, combined with Felix’s attitude this morning left Annette wondering if there were stars in the constellation that she wasn’t yet connecting. 

“You’ll have some with me, won’t you?” Annette batted her eyelashes up at him in a gross overstatement of everything Dorothea had ever taught her. “I know it was your favorite, before.”

Felix gave an enormous sigh, threw back the rest of his coffee, and then slammed the ceramic mug back down. “Alright, Hilda, here.”

_First offense,_ Annette thought. Felix’s favorite alcohol had been the Fraldarius yuletide whiskey, so far as she knew, unless Oktoberfest Märzen was in season.

Hilda grinned as she splashed vodka into Felix’s now-empty coffee mug and Annette’s juice. She poured herself a capful and held it aloft. “So what do we toast to?”

“To those who are never going home,” said Annette, and she clinked her glass against Felix’s mug.

“Cheers,” he said, throwing back his head.

And then he coughed.

Annette’s brow furrowed in deep consternation. _Second offense._ Felix Hugo Fraldarius did not flinch when drinking, ever. And he never said cheers, only _prost._

But she had to be sure. She _had_ to.

“So how have you been, Hilda?” Annette asked.

“Oh, well enough,” she said, nudging Ferdinand over on the bench so that she could swing her legs over it. “Arianrhod keeps us busy, you know.”

“You mean Edelweiss Hold,” Ferdinand said lightly, “right?”

Hilda waved him off. “Pish posh.”

“I do wonder why they bothered to rename an originally-Imperial fort, anyway,” Annette said.

“Why rename anything?” Hilda said. “To mark her territory, of course. Like a dog with a–”

“Kindly do not finish that sentence,” Ferdinand interrupted, somewhat hotly.

Hilda smiled at him again, and this time it was all teeth.

Annette set her hand on Felix’s leg under the table to lean in and say, “And they call _us_ the war dogs.”

He fell into his mug again, but didn’t startle at the sudden contact. “I grow tired of shooing you from my personal space, this morning.”

_Third offense._

Once, a long time ago in the Knights’ Hall in the deep stillness of a sleepless night, Felix had told her to stab him if he said something at all close to ‘I hate you.’

And Annette had heard enough.

She slowly got to her feet, staring down this man wearing her lover’s face. “Hey, Felix?”

He turned to look at her, and for all the world, he seemed himself. Same deep tear troughs and dark eye, same dark hair hiding part of the eye patch that seemed like it took up half his face, some days.

And for a moment, Annette faltered.

What if he really _were_ just tired? What if she were just remembering his favorite drinks wrong, and he really was out of it? What if he choked because it was entirely too early to be drinking? Was he just feeling ill and trying to force her out again?

_“What?”_ Felix barked, and Annette made her choice.

_“Get out of his body,”_ she hissed, and she drew his own blade to run him through.

Felix choked, holding his stomach where the blade had pierced through his abdomen and falling back against the table. “Annette, what the _fuck?”_

The entire mess hall had gone so quiet, they all heard Annette snarl, “ _Get. Out. Of. His. Body!”_

“What are you _talking_ about?” A bubble of blood grew at the corner of his mouth, and then burst into his beard.

For a moment, Annette could only stare in horror as greyness suffused into her vision. Had she been wrong, somehow? Had she miscalculated? Had she just killed the warmest, safest space left in the world?

Across the table, Ferdinand drew in a deep breath, and then said, sharply, “Give it up, Cornelia.”

For another horribly long moment, Felix stared at Ferdinand in shock. And then his face twisted in rage, and he lunged for the lancer.

Annette snatched at his hood of his cloak, and he choked as his head snapped back. And when he sharply turned his head to look back at her, the eye staring her down was not the whiskey-amber she knew it to be, but rather a clear, vibrant green.

“I knew it!” Hilda crowed triumphantly, and she pounded on the table twice with her fist.

The mess hall burst to life in a flurry of sound and motion as Caspar and a small, armored cohort burst in through the main doors. He didn’t allow himself to be accosted as he strode up the long rows of wooden benches, drawing his axe as he drew near.

He settled it onto his shoulder as Felix’s face began sloughing off, like makeup running in a heavy rain. It cleared away the beard and the austere, Fraldarius features, leaving behind sharper features that did not belong to him, and a head of vibrantly ginger hair.

Caspar stared down Cornelia with all the force of his long-feared father, all traces of the goofy boy they’d known in the academy gone.

“Start talking,” he growled, hefting his axe onto his shoulder, “or your head is going on a pike outside the front gate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come hang out on twitter for extra nonsense](https://twitter.com/MadsHatter1)


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the sunshine dims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy this chapter my half-asleep ass thought I posted last night, ope
> 
> and I'm so sorry the comment section has become like my second inbox--I promise I'm getting to everyone's messages!! y'all are too kind [crying emoji] [crying emoji]

“This woman has _stabbed_ me!” Cornelia hissed. “I demand—”

“You’re in no position to demand shit,” Caspar interrupted. “You are dressed in gear stolen from a guest in my fort—and an old friend at that—while wearing his face with some kind of dark magic even _I_ could smell from a mile off.”

Cornelia’s jaw snapped shut audibly.

Caspar tapped his axe against his shoulder. “Explain yourself. _Now.”_

“Can’t this wait until I’ve seen a white mage?” Blood ran from the corners of her mouth as she spoke, dribbling into the soft, white fur of Felix’s collar.

“No,” Caspar said plainly. “It can’t. Best get started.”

“This is against the Deirdru Conventions,” Cornelia argued, leaning more heavily against the table.

“It would be,” Caspar agreed, “if this were war.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you declaring war on me, Governor?”

Cornelia made a face like all of this was just _such_ a headache. “It was meant to be a joke, is all. A bit of a prank on these old Faerghus war dogs. Surely you understand.”

“I don’t, actually. Let’s say I’m ‘ _too dense.’”_ Caspar put quotes around the operative words with his free hand. “Let’s say I _don’t_ understand the need for the governor of Western Adrestia to masquerade as a professor of the Officers’ Academy for _any_ length of time, no matter the cause.”

“Caspar,” Cornelia tried, “ _honestly_ , I need a—”

“I _don’t_ understand why you’re wearing his clothes, his swords, or his boots,” Caspar continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “And I don’t understand how you could _possibly_ know magic that dark, without the scars.”

At that moment, Hilda learned across the table and yanked off one of Felix’s gloves that Cornelia had stolen. And there, against her pale, white skin lay looping, whorling dark magic burns.

“Where is he, you bitch?” Annette was shaking with the force of her barely-restrained fury, tears running down her face. “ _Where is Felix?”_

“This is all a misunderstanding,” Cornelia said. “And I won’t be able to clear up anything with a _Levin sword in my stomach.”_

“Felix is in the crypt below Arianrhod,” Ferdinand said, quietly. “I can take you to him.”

Caspar, Annette, and Hilda all snapped their attention to the Imperial lancer, but found him staring at his own white-gloved hands.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Caspar growled.

Ferdinand nodded, and a single tear slid from his face and into his collar.

“Hilda,” Caspar said, much more softly, “please inform General Holst and the Empress that we have an imposter in Arianrhod.”

“Gladly, dearest.” She was instantly on her feet. “I’ll saddle up Cornu and be gone before she can even think of sending people after me.”

She flicked a contempt-filled glance towards Cornelia.

“Caspar!” Cornelia gasped. “This is out of line!”

“Oh no it’s not,” he argued, his temper finally flaring. “You’ve compromised the security of this fort for, what, again? A prank? _Somehow_ I doubt that. How many others have you impersonated? How many more will you try to?”

He leaned forward, head framed by the heavy axe on his shoulder, voice low as he snarled, “How many more of you slithery bastards have _infested_ my _home?”_

It was then that Cornelia whispered, “ _Einherjar.”_

Caspar was blasted back down the row of tables, slamming into the stone floor with a pained grunt. Dark magic billowed around Cornelia’s frame, silhouetting the stolen furs against rotten, purple runes.

For a moment, no one in the mess hall so much as twitched.

And then from where he lay, Caspar called out, “Fuck!”

And all descended into chaos.

Hilda vaulted over the dining table and bolted towards her husband, while several mages threw off their own disguises not unlike Cornelia’s and struck the nearest Imperial soldier. The cohort that Caspar had entered with threw themselves into combat, and the Garreg Mach students sat in stunned silence only moment or two longer. Faustine began barking orders to her comrades, Johanna Barr and Roderick Faas not far behind.

Cornelia began drawing a rune in the air that Annette recognized and would not abide. She lowered her shoulder and slammed into the woman with all the force she could muster, driving Felix’s sword deeper into her gut.

Cornelia cut off the magic with a pained snarl.

“Don’t think you can warp out of here,” Annette snapped.

“Don’t let Goneril free!” Cornelia shouted in a pale imitation of her usual voice.

Ferdinand finally snapped into motion, vaulting the table much like Hilda had and snatching Felix’s other sword from Cornelia’s belt on his way. He tore down the increasingly-trafficked aisle, pivoting around fallen soldiers and spells alike.

“Hilda!” he shouted. “You need to go, _now!”_

Hilda made a helpless noise as she cradled Caspar’s head in her lap, her hands coming away bloody. 

“‘M fine,” Caspar grunted up at her. “Go tell Holst... ‘n Edelgard.”

Hilda pursed her lips and gave one, terse nod. She leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “Don’t you _dare_ die on me.”

“Never,” Caspar agreed, clasping her hand in his. “Now go.”

She shot off like a bottle rocket, dodging spells and arrows alike as she pelted towards the stables. Ferdinand took up position where she’d left off, rosining up his borrowed sword for the oncoming fight.

“Fuck you, Ferdie,” Caspar spat up at him, even as he struggled to sit up.

“I know.” Ferdinand’s grip tightened on his sword. “But I _will_ make this right.”

“Couldna tried that…" Caspar grimaced. "...nine years ago?” 

Ferdinand did not reply.

-)

All in, the battle did not take long.

There were far fewer “Slithery Bastards” in Arianrhod than Caspar’s men, let alone Officers’ Academy students, and the former had not prepared to fight for their lives today (nor were they angry enough to make up for that fact, like the latter).

“All assailants restrained, Professor,” Faustine reported. 

“Good.” Annette nodded, and then was on the move. “Keep an eye on their mages.” She turned, calling out, “Siegmund! Cora!”

The student wyvern riders perked up from where they were tending to their classmates’ more superficial wounds. “Aye, Professor?” Cora called.

“Make certain Hilda got to her wyvern!”

“Right!” said Siegmund, and he tugged Cora along with him out of the mess hall.

“Ellie,” Annette called as she approached the girl, “how is the general?”

“‘M right here, you know,” Caspar said.

Ellie’s brow was furrowed in concentration. “He’s definitely got a concussion, but he should be okay now that I’ve stopped the bleeding.”

Annette nodded once, firmly, and then called, “Ferdinand!”

He sat atop one of the tables, leaning his head against a lance stolen from one of Cornelia’s men and keeping an eye on the woman herself. “Yes?”

Annette stared him down with unrestrained fury. “ _You_ are taking me to Felix right this instant.”

Ferdinand drew in a deep breath, and then slid from the table. “Right.”

“We will not forget this,” Cornelia hissed at him, struggling against her bonds.

Ferdinand surveyed her with evident distaste. “Johanna!” he called. “Kindly get this woman a muzzle, and something to wear that isn’t Felix’s armor.”

The Iron Cranes’ house leader nodded firmly, already tearing off a strip of her uniform skirt to gag the dark mage. “Francesca,” she called to their house lancer, “come help me.”

Annette and Ferdinand left Cornelia to the Iron Cranes’ tender mercies, and rounded on Markus. He was issuing orders the Black Eagles to secure the perimeter and make certain no one had escaped the chaos in the mess hall.

He launched into a lecture: “You can't just stab a foreign dignitary!”

“If anything, it’s Faerghus business,” Annette snapped back. “You needn’t get involved at all.”

“Are you coming with us to the crypts, or keeping this mess secured?” Ferdinand cut in swiftly.

Markus looked like he couldn’t decide which he liked less—being stuck with Caspar von Bergliez, or recovering Felix Fraldarius. “I will remain here,” he said after a moment’s debate. “Our students are capable, but they aren't soldiers yet.”

Annette and Ferdinand both nodded, and then Annette shouted, “Faustine!”

At once the assassin girl appeared, a sword stolen from one of Cornelia’s guards in hand. “Yes, professor?”

“You’re coming with us,” Annette said. “We’re getting your professor back.”

-)

These crypts smelled awful.

It was the first thing that struck Annette when Ferdinand lead them down, down, _down_ into the bowels of Arianrhod. Fort crypts like this were meant to hold the newly dead, not remain their burial place. Too many bodies had stayed here, rather than being sent home.

“Weren’t you the one in charge of Arianrhod, after it fell?” Annette hissed to Ferdinand.

He nodded distantly. Silent tears were streaking down his face, and had been for some time.

If there were anyone more noble and upstanding than Ferdinand von Aegir had once been, Annette had never met them. “How could you let this happen? These men and women should have been returned to Faerghus in coffins or urns!”

“They got me early,” Ferdinand cut in quietly. “You’ll see, in a moment.”

Faustine stared at her well-mannered horsemanship professor with growing horror and revulsion. “Who did?”

Ferdinand spared her only a glance over his shoulder. “Those Who Slither in the Dark.”

“The Shadows in the Blood Eagle’s Empire,” Annette muttered, magic crackling at her fingertips. “The ones wearing friendly faces and striking from them, too.”

“Professor,” said Faustine, the color rapidly draining from her face, “does that mean they were trying to impersonate Professor Fraldarius, all the way to the Academy?”

“And beyond,” Ferdinand said, “most likely.”

He held up his hand, and their little party came up short at a side door. Ferdinand rubbed at his eyes for a moment, and then turned to the two women. “If there were anyone here when the fight upstairs broke out, they wouldn’t yet know. Be prepared to fight.”

Faustine’s grip on her sword tightened, and Annette nodded.

Ferdinand drew in a very tired breath, hefted his stolen lance, and then gave a complicated little knock before pushing open the door.

“Ferdinand,” came a voice from within, “what are you—”

It cut itself off with a wet gurgle.

Annette and Faustine poured into the room behind him, only to find it devoid of the enemy. Ferdinand strode across the room, yanking his lance from the now-dead mage’s chest and wiping it clean on the man’s soiled robes, before dropping to his haunches and rummaging about the man’s pockets.

The room wasn’t large, but it reeked of fresh blood and old wounds. A wicked-looking array of pseudo-medical implements lay neatly across a side table, a stack of neatly organized glass vials beside them. A small fire crackled in a hearth, branding irons visibly warming in the coals.

And fighting his restraints on a long, low table in the middle of the room was a familiar black-haired figure, naked to the waist.

“Felix!” Annette called, relief and panic twisting her voice. “Hang on, we’ll get you out of there!”

Ferdinand straightened, a small, cast iron key in hand, and made quick work of the cuffs at Felix’s wrists and ankles.

For a moment, the three of them held their breath as Felix brought himself to a sitting position, cracking his neck first one way, and then the other. There was a half-stitched incision on his abdomen, still lazily oozing blood, and his wrists were rubbed visibly raw. Cornelia still had his eye patch upstairs, and so his lightning burns were ghastly in the gloom, his sightless eye reflecting nothingness the flickering firelight.

And then Felix smashed his fist into Ferdinand’s unprotected jaw, and Annette sighed in relief. That was Felix, alright.

“Fuck you,” he growled, slipping from the table and onto the stone floor. His bare feet made no sound as he rounded on Ferdinand. “You traitorous _bastard!”_

Ferdinand didn’t bother to try to stop him when Felix seized a fistful of his shirt, but he yelped in surprise when Felix dragged him over to the fire. He scrabbled at Felix’s hand as the swordmaster jammed his knee into Ferdinand’s leg and held his head over the low flames.

“Give me _one good reason,”_ Felix snarled.

“Felix!” Annette shouted, but Faustine laid a quiet hand on her arm.

The look in the girl’s eyes understood far too much.

Tears once again streamed down Ferdinand’s face as he stared up at Felix, petrified. The ends of his long, red hair singed in the coals, filling the room with the acrid tang of burnt hair. “They have my daughter, Felix.”

Horror unlike any Annette had ever felt before seized her insides and squeezed, but apparently Felix felt no such fear. “And you just _let_ them take her?” He shoved his hand further into Ferdinand’s hair and yanked; the lancer winced so hard, fresh tears sprang into his eyes. 

Grief colored Ferdinand’s voice. “I had no choice.” 

“Do you think I wouldn’t rend heaven for my daughter?” Felix snarled. “There is _always_ a choice.”

Annette was pretty sure her heart completely stopped beating for a moment. _Did he just…?_

“I couldn’t protect her _or_ her mother, if I were dead!”

“You call this _protecting?”_

“It wasn’t supposed to _be_ this way!” Desperation colored Ferdinand’s voice. “Edelgard was supposed to keep her safe—keep _both_ of them safe—but my daughter has a Crest.”

“That sounds like the Blood Eagle,” Felix bit out.

“After Hubert refused them, they came to us,” Ferdinand said. “And so we made a deal with Edelgard. If I would father them a child, Edelgard would keep them both safe. She told me the Crest wouldn’t matter, and like the foolish man I was, I believed her.”

“You have, what, the Crest of Cichol, isn’t it?” Felix said. “That isn’t that odd.”

Beneath Felix’s iron grip, Ferdinand stilled. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have been, if she’d inherited my Crest, instead of her mother’s.”

Felix studied him for a long moment. “Her mother is already dead, isn’t she?”

For an instant, no one in the hellish operating room breathed.

“No, she isn’t,” Ferdinand said, quietly. “Though she may as well be.”

Felix stared at him, and Ferdinand saw himself reflected in Felix’s ruined eye, and suddenly years of grief came pouring out. “They _took_ her, Felix. Took my daughter, too, and all Edelgard could do was shrug helplessly at me. As if she is not the Empress, as if lives are so easily taken and lost!”

Felix’s face belied nothing. “What do you care about Flayn, anyway? She was on the other side of the war.”

“Beyond the fact that I love her?” Ferdinand’s hair singed again, and the air grew more acrid still. “She’s Saint Cethleann. I learned far too late to spare Seteth, but I thought, in my foolishness, that I could perhaps spare Flayn the same fate.”

Felix’s brow furrowed, and he snatched at the first thing that made sense. “Where _is_ Seteth?”

“The answer is more like ‘what,’” Ferdinand said. “I believe his remains were crafted into a lance and locked away with the rest of the Heroes’ Relics.”

Felix blinked at him, his brain working to process about a thousand things at once. “The Heroes’ Relics are made from dragon bones.”

It had been easy enough to tell, with the Aegis shield. The pitted surface of the shield front had been bleached by the sun and worn smooth, like the deer skulls you’d sometimes see deep in the forests of Faerghus, and Felix had thought, more than once, that it looked like the skull of a dragon—or the top part of it, anyway.

But Ferdinand merely shook his head, bringing his hair dangerously close to the fire again. “The relics are made of the bones of the Saints.”

Felix stared at Ferdinand, and Ferdinand stared at Felix, and behind them, Annette pressed both of her hands to her mouth in complete shock, and Faustine’s brow furrowed so deeply it would leave her with a headache.

And then with a burst of motion, Felix shoved Ferdinand into the wall beside the hearth. The lancer’s head cracked painfully against the hard stone, and he sunk against the wall with a nervous laugh.

“You are telling me _everything you know,”_ Felix growled. “Just as soon as I find pants.”

He turned, finally, to survey the room, and his relief at seeing Annette unharmed was only slightly outdone but his shock at seeing Faustine. He gave a startled yelp and immediately bolted behind the table to at least maintain a _modicum_ of his dignity.

“Four Saints, _what_ did you drag Faustine here for?”

“Sorry, Professor!” the girl shouted back, averting her eyes immediately, now that the danger had passed. “Professor Dominic didn’t want to trust that Professor von Aegir was telling the truth without backup! How were we supposed to know you aren’t wearing clothes?”

“Cornelia _stole_ them!” (Though mercifully left him his braies.)

Annette was barely listening, she was so focused on cataloguing every hair on his head and new wound on his body. She crashed into Felix with all the force in her bones, burying her nose in his bare chest just above the tattoo of his Crest, and she knew that he was far less well than he let on when he squeezed back with identical force.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Annette mumbled through relieved tears. “When you weren’t acting like you this morning, I wondered if I were going crazy.” 

Felix reached out, still tentative after all this time, settling a rough hand on her soft cheek and sweeping his thumb across her tears as they came. “I’m glad you realized it wasn’t me.”

“I’m sure she thought it would be easy,” Annette said, trying to scoff, and not quite reaching it. “Just act like an asshole; no one will notice the difference.”

“I tried to tell her,” Ferdinand mumbled from his spot on the floor.

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten about you,” Felix snapped at him. “How long have you been reporting on Hubert from Garreg Mach?”

Ferdinand hung his head again. “The whole time. I think he began to suspect at some point fairly early on, because, well, we had never been particularly close to begin with, but he became even more distant.”

“Good for Hubert,” Felix muttered.

Ferdinand tested the waters, and lifted his head. The contempt in even Annette’s eyes was almost too much, but he pressed on, “That’s why Cornelia wanted to impersonate you, you know. Hubert trusts you.”

“And they know that because of you?” Annette asked.

““I’m…” Ferdinand bit his lip. “...not the only set of their eyes and ears, in Garreg Mach. Just the most unwilling.”

Silence fell across the room, then.

“All for your daughter, huh?” Felix muttered. “So if we drag her out of here, will you stand with us?”

Ferdinand nodded, emphatically. “I will write to Petra to tutor her in Brigid, if that's what it takes to keep her safe.”

“Then hold that thought,” Felix said, and he let go of Annette to slip deeper in the room.

“Professor Dominic?” Faustine didn’t raise her face until Felix’s footsteps had well receded.

Annette turned to her, scrubbing at her eyes. “Yes, Faustine?”

Just like when she’d tried to tell Professor Fraldarius why she now wore the uniform jacket, fear seized Faustine’s throat and threatened to choke her. Markus was _right upstairs,_ for the Goddess’ sake.

But this room was an abomination and it sounded like Professor Fraldarius and Professor von Aegir’s daughter were not the only victims.

And if she didn’t speak up, there would almost certainly be at least one more.

“They want your daughter,” Faustine whispered, and her words skidded into one another in her haste to get them out. “I overheard my father and Markus over winter break last year, talking about how they needed her for something. I wanted to tell you and Professor Fraldarius, but then you were both so nice to me I didn’t want to repay your kindness with panic and rumors that might not even be true, and I—”

Abruptly, Faustine cut herself off when Annette set both hands on her shoulders. “Are you certain?”

Faustine nodded, stubbornly ignoring the tears leaking down her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Hush,” said Annette softly, drawing Faustine into a quick, fierce hug. “You’ve told me now.”

“Annette,” Ferdinand said urgently, “we left Markus with the students.”

Annette’s eyes widened, and she shouted, “Felix! We have to move _now!”_

He reappeared from around the corner of the room in an instant, having somehow scrounged up a worn pair of linen pants and a tiny, red-haired girl, clinging to his neck.

“I heard.” He stopped at Ferdinand, now on his feet, and handed the child out to him. “Hold this. Give me your lance.”

Ferdinand immediately relinquished the stolen lance and crushed his daughter to his chest. It was impossible to tell her age, she was so frail and covered in bruises and open sores, but the way she clung to him reminded Felix so much of Alessia that he had to look away.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which dogs bark, and wolves do not flinch

When Dorothea had initially said it was too quiet without the Third Years all those weeks ago, Hubert had already agreed with her. It was even worse over a month in, with half the Officers’ Academy empty and several good friends missing.

Hubert wondered, a bit dismally, how the trip was going. He had sent Sylvain after them a few weeks ago, and had, as of yet, heard nothing from his spy relay network. That didn’t necessarily mean anything was wrong—Sylvain was easily sidetracked, but he always came back with more information than Hubert had ever asked him for—but it still set Hubert’s teeth on edge.

“Hubie, dear?” Dorothea’s smooth voice cut into his swirling thoughts. “Are you with me?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “You were telling me about your Second Year Iron Cranes.”

They were sitting in the mess hall over tea, and the place was currently between-meals empty. They had taken to spending time here during Dorothea’s sudden free periods, taking tea or spreading out paperwork and enjoying the sunlight streaming in through the many windows.

Dorothea leveled him in an appraising look. “They’re just fine, you know. The students we sent to Arianrhod, and Felix.”

Hubert grimaced; he despised being caught. “It isn’t often that man is unsettled.”

“True enough,” Dorothea said. “But you know Annette’s got a firm head on her shoulders, and Ferdinand won’t let Markus give them too much grief.”

Hubert stared into his coffee, and uncharacteristically said nothing.

“I know Annette’s a bit scatterbrained,” Dorothea guessed, “but she’s incredibly smart, and a good read on people. Not as good as Felix, of course, but if he’s not feeling well...”

“I’m not concerned for Annette, exactly.” Hubert pressed his head into his hands, as if he could quell his oncoming migraine. “She would sooner tear apart that fort with her bare hands than let anything happen to Felix. And he’s the same, for her.”

“Then you know they’re likely trading barbs with Markus right now over travelers’ tea.” Dorothea took a thoughtful sip of her own decidedly better-steeped tea. “I wouldn't worry that their relationship has somehow deteriorated.”

Hubert sighed, and set down his coffee cup. “I’m less concerned that Markus may try something than Ferdinand.”

Dorothea blinked, stunned. “Ferdinand? What in Goddess’ name are you concerned about _Ferdinand_ for? I know you aren't suddenly feeling guilty for throwing him into that drama.”

Hubert studied the looping whorls of steam as they rose from his coffee. “Has he seemed off to you, since you arrived?”

Dorothea blinked. “Ferdinand? Not particularly, why?”

“He hasn’t seemed quite right to me my entire tenure,” Hubert said. “It isn’t quite like someone is wearing his face, but more that he’s _hiding_ something.”

Dorothea blinked. “That man is an open book.”

“Precisely.”

Dorothea chewed on a teacake for a moment, lost in thought. “You _do_ know the rumors, I trust?”

Hubert’s grin was rueful. “Which ones?”

Dorothea shot him a look.

“I’m serious,” Hubert said tiredly. “Do you mean the ones about Flayn, myself, or Salvatore?”

“I doubt there’s any more truth to the Flayn ones than to the ones about you,” Dorothea said, “not after what they did Seteth.”

A shadow passed over their table.

“I suppose we all should have seen that as the beginning of the end,” Hubert murmured, not really to Dorothea.

She set her teacup down and pushed it delicately away, her elegant features twisted in disgust. “I hope the Goddess forgives us, for that one.”

“None of you have anything to worry about,” Hubert said. “That matter rests entirely on Arundel.”

“And you’re not counted among us because…?”

Hubert bowed his head. “I did not stop him.”

“To that end,” Dorothea said, “neither did Edelgard.”

Hubert took a long draw of coffee, and found it did nothing to calm his nerves. “If it _is_ Salvatore,” he said after a moment, “why would he bother to hide that from _me?”’_

“Some instincts die hard, and he probably didn’t want you to think less of him,” Dorothea said. “It wasn’t terribly _noble_ of him.”

“The _Emperor_ also enjoys the company of her own sex,” Hubert pointed out. “It’s as ‘noble’ as she is, these days—provided the word is still even used in polite company.”

“I liked Salvatore.” Dorothea sounded far away. “I met him a few times, you know. Before Ferdinand was comfortable calling him what he truly was, they were friends. They brought me flowers at the opera, one night, and then we all went drinking. That's when I figured it out.”

She snapped back to herself, and her brow furrowed in sudden consternation.

“Come to think of it,” she added, “I never did hear why they broke up.”

“I’ve no idea,” Hubert said, and the words felt strange coming from him. “He rushed back home for something or other, a year or two after I became Headmaster, and came back looking like he’d seen a ghost.”

“How curious.” Dorothea took a contemplative sip of tea. “I wonder if—”

She cut off whatever she’d been about to say when they both heard the massive mess hall door open, and instead transitioned to, “We’ve had unusually kind weather this autumn, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite so.” Hubert took another sip of coffee.

He was not prepared for a red-haired slip of a girl to stop at the end of the table, just beside them. She twisted the hem of her skirt in her hands, and nervous energy crackled all around her.

“Hello, Alessia dear,” Dorothea said warmly. “Are you looking for your Auntie Mercie?”

Alessia shook her head a bit too vigorously. She stared at the two adults for a long moment, wringing her hands.

Hubert’s brow furrowed. “Is everything alright?”

“Not-Uncle Felix said that if I ever needed help and he, mama, and Auntie Mercie weren’t around, I should go to you, Headmaster,” she burst out.

It was hard to say who looked more stunned—Hubert, or Dorothea—but he recovered quickly. “Well then, you’ve done well to find me. How may I assist you?”

Alessia looked down to her worn-out boots again, still twisting her skirts.

Dorothea’s smile was rueful. “Your mama and Felix didn’t say to trust me, did they?”

Alessia made an apologetic face. “I’m sorry, Auntie ‘Thea.”

“That’s alright, dear,” Dorothea said, getting to her feet. “I’ll be just outside.”

Hubert pressed a grateful kiss to her knuckles before she slipped from the hall.

“Well, then Alessia,” he said to the girl, “have a seat.”

She clambered up onto the mess hall bench, just barely tall enough to properly rest her arms on the table, her legs swinging beneath her. At Hubert’s expectant look, she crumpled. “Do you promise you won’t get mad and yell?”

“I think you’ll find I’m not really the yelling sort.” It was as close to reassuring as Hubert could muster.

Alessia made a face, and then she said, all at once, “Miss Rosamund took the book Mama and Not-Uncle Felix gave me for my birthday.”

Hubert blinked a few times. “Were you reading it in class?”

“No!” Her indignation was immediate. “I was reading it out in the courtyard. Only…” She hung her head. “...Mama and Not-Uncle Felix said not to read it anywhere but my room or mama’s, because it could get them in trouble.”

Hubert suddenly understood the fear in the girl’s grey eyes.

“I don’t want to get Mama and Not-Uncle Felix in trouble,” Alessia said, and she sounded on the verge of tears. “I was just waiting for Auntie Mercie to be done with her classes, right where she told me. Only Alexander was too busy to play with me and I got bored...”

“I shall speak with Miss Rosamund,” Hubert said. “Why don’t you have some tea with Dorothea while you wait on Mercedes and myself?”

“Okay.” Alessia sniffed, and started wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Thank you, Headmaster.”

Hubert produced a handkerchief from somewhere on his person. “Think nothing of it, little one.”

-)

Hubert had very little reason to go into town that didn’t involve the pub or the night market, and so strolling about in broad daylight felt almost like he was doing something wrong.

He let himself into the one-room schoolhouse in the corner of town, and was unsurprised to find the industrious Miss Rosamund writing out tomorrow’s lesson on the blackboard. 

“Rosamund?” Hubert called, and the woman startled. “Might I have a word?”

“Headmaster von Vestra!” The chalk in her hand clattered to the floor. “Yes, of course.”

It hadn’t taken a whole host of thought to determine what sort of book could possibly have gotten Alessia—let alone Felix or Annette—in trouble. “A little birdie told me you’ve come into possession of a most interesting book.”

Rosamund blanched, but quickly recovered. “Yes, I confiscated it from the little, well, Western Adrestian girl in my class, Alessia Dominic. I swear, I was going to turn it in just as soon as I was finished here.”

“No need.” Hubert’s voice was shadows on silk. “I shall take it off your hands now.”

“O-of course. Let me get it for you.”

It had been a long time since anyone had been so openly piss-terrified of him, Hubert mused somewhat blackly as the children’s teacher scrambled to find the book in question. He wasn’t certain he missed it, exactly, but it certainly felt more normal than attempting to comfort Annette’s daughter had.

Rosamund returned a moment later with a brown paper-wrapped package. “Here, all in one piece.”

_Now would you please go?_ remained unsaid.

“You have my thanks.” Hubert swept into a bow and took the book from her. “Good day to you, Rosamund.”

She breathed in visible relief as he turned to go. “Good day to you, Headmaster.”

Curious, he paused just inside the door to scan the book for just what exactly Alessia was so terrified Felix and Annette would get into trouble for.

_In a flash, Kyphon's sword flew from its scabbard. The knight parried the assassin's blade mere inches from the spine of his king._

_“On your knees, knave,” Kyphon snarled, his blade a singing whisper at the man’s throat._

_“I yield!” the would-be assassin cried._

_“Be at ease, Kyphon.” Loog rose to his feet, a true beast of a man, towering over his would-be assassin._

_Kyphon did not lower his blade. “Who sent you?”_

Droplets of water dotted the page, and it took Hubert a moment to realize they were his. 

Alessia was terrified of her parents being silenced—for a mere copy of _The Sword of Kyphon—_ when Hubert could still recall with adroit clarity all the summer afternoons where the Emperor’s Council would meet, and Ferdinand would rope whomever he could into games of Knights and Dragons. The summer that he and Edelgard read _The Sword of Kyphon,_ Hubert had been forced to be Kyphon the entire summer, as he was already in magic lessons and Kyphon was famously a mortal savant. Edelgard and Ferdinand had fought over who got to play Loog, usually right up until Henry von Aegir or Lukas von Hresvelg claimed the title and demoted their younger sibling to page.

Rosamund’s terrified voice sounded from somewhere behind him. “Something wrong, Headmaster?” 

“Not at all,” Hubert lied, and he pushed the door open.

-)

They were too late.

“What’s going on here?” Felix roared over the complete chaos in the mess hall, and unthinkably, it stilled.

Annette’s brow furrowed as she did a quick once-over across the room. “Where is Professor von Engel?”

“Good to see you, Felix,” Caspar rasped from where he sat atop one of the dining tables, holding an ice pack to the back of his head. He grinned, and Felix noted one of his teeth was now missing.

“You look like shit,” Felix told him, and Caspar snorted.

“We have your clothes, professor!” Johanna called, bundling the blue cloth and white furs in her arms. “Sorry, they’re, um, kind of bloody.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Annette said to Felix quietly. “I stabbed her with your Levin sword when I realized she wasn’t you.”

Felix stared at her for a long moment, thunderstruck. Whatever he was going to say was lost in his throat when Johanna appeared and pushed his clothes into his arms.

“Oh, and these too,” the girl added, pooling the chain with his father’s ring atop his coat, and setting his flask beside it. 

“Thanks,” Felix said, a bit stiffly. “What happened here?”

“As we were getting your clothes back, Governor Cornelia got loose,” Johanna said, turning her back to him to at least pretend to give him privacy. “She knocked out Francesca with a blast of dark magic.”

“Bitch almost had me!” Francesca shouted from down the row, and one of Caspar’s healers told her to hush.

“And then Ellie cast silence!” Johanna said.

“Ellie!” Faustine shouted excitedly. “I’m so proud!”

Ellie gave a nervous laugh from where she was currently standing over Cornelia’s bound and gagged form, which was now dressed in a spare uniform. “I couldn't let her just get away with knocking out Professor Fraldarius and stealing his clothes to pretend to be him. What if we’d gotten all the way back to Garreg Mach, and just… _left_ him here?”

Felix, fully dressed once more, was pressing his fingers into the hole left by his own Levin sword as he turned back to face his students. “Well, this is great,” he muttered.

“I can fix that for you, professor!” Ellie added. “I just need a needle and some thread.”

Annette cleared her throat, drawing eyes and ears. “Where is Markus von Engel?”

“That’s… the other thing,” Roderick called over. “He kind of, sort of, warped somewhere? And we haven’t seen him?”

All color drained from Faustine’s face, but it was Felix who barked, _“Find him._ ”

“I didn’t even know Markus _could_ warp,” Faustine said.

“I think there's a lot we don’t know about your brother,” Felix said. “Including if he even is _actually_ your brother.”

“Can you think of a time where he drastically changed?” Annette asked, trying her best to maintain an outward appearance of calm, and _not_ dwell on the fact that she may have slept with one of Those Slithery Bastards, and not merely someone they’d impersonated later.

“Not exactly,” Faustine said, “but also he’s my oldest brother, so I’ve never really seen him much. Sudden changes, though…”

She burst forward, into where the Violet Owls had clumped up. Karina was tending to one of Christel’s wounds, while Owen hovered somewhere nearby, his hands unsteady on a borrowed bow.

Eberhard, however, was sitting alone.

“Hey, Eberhard,” Faustine said.

“Faustine.” He nodded to her. “I’m fine.”

She nodded back. “What happened to Christel?”

“Someone got him with a dagger,” Eberhard said. “His arm is pretty bad.”

His brow furrowed at her when she didn’t move, or say anything else. “Is there something _else_ you needed?”

Professors Fraldarius and Dominic had filled her in, on the way, with what they knew (Professor von Aegir had not, being entirely too preoccupied). _A sudden change after an absence, sounding like themselves, but-not-quite, and most importantly not knowing things that the actual person would know._

“Do you remember the night you were attacked,” Faustine asked, “at the beginning of last year, when I ran to get Professor von Martritz and came back with Professor Fraldarius?”

“Yeah?” Eberhard said. “You don’t forget something like that.”

Faustine drew in a deep breath. “Do you remember what I told you that night?”

This would cinch it, one way or another. Either he remembered, and he was himself, or he didn’t, and Twisted was wearing his face. But Faustine would know.

Eberhard’s brow furrowed. “That was a long time ago, Faustine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Eberhard made an annoyed noise. “Why would I remember a random conversation with my ex-girlfriend on the night I nearly died?”

Karina opened her mouth to tell him not to be such a prick, but it quickly turned into a shriek when Faustine’s dagger lodged itself in Eberhard’s chest.

Faustine leaned into the blade with all her heartache. “You’re not Eberhard.”

“What the hell?” he spluttered. “You just _stabbed_ me!”

“You can come out, Markus,” Faustine called across the silenced hall. “Or I’ll murder your slithery friend!”

For a long, painful moment, nothing moved.

Faustine gave a shocked, spluttering laugh—“I should have expected he wouldn't care about his friends, either.”—and yanked the dagger from Eberhard’s chest.

Blood poured over his fingers as he tried to stop the bleeding, and for the first time in a long time, Faustine actually looked at him. For a moment, her heart lodged in her throat; had she just murdered her actual classmate?

But then she spotted the curling dark magic burns that climbed up his hands, just barely visible on his wrists where his glove didn’t meet his sleeve, and she knew.

“Who sent you?” she asked, her voice a pained whisper. “Where is the _actual_ Eberhard?”

“I’m right here!”

Faustine stared at him, and his formerly kind, honey-gold eyes flickered to a deep blue.

A cold wind blew through the mess hall, bringing with it a voice Faustine knew very well. “What is the _meaning_ of this?”

Faustine froze completely at the sound.

“Markus, _where_ have you been?” Annette demanded.

“I went to check on Siegmund and Cora,” he defended. “And it’s a good thing I did, because Goneril died at the stables.”

Caspar looked like he’d caught a war axe to the chest. “She _what?”_

Markus suddenly had the good sense to appear apologetic. “I’m… terribly sorry.”

“No, no, no,” Caspar murmured, falling against the table. “She’s a Goneril; there’s no way.”

“I daresay the family Crest has nothing to do with it,” Markus said. “Something felt off to me about this whole affair, so I went to investigate.”

Felix shut his eyes against the tide of unexpected grief. He and Hilda had never been particularly close, but she had been a classmate. A voice in the halls, a head of pink hair at the dining tables. More than once, Felix and his father had kicked around the idea of saying damn it all, and seeing if Holst Goneril would break from the Alliance’s tenuous neutrality to stand with them.

She was yet another casualty in a war that, according to the Empress’ left hand, had never really ended.

Caspar looked like he was trying not to cave in on himself. “Are they all the way in our stables, too?” His voice was not nearly as loud as it should have been.

Markus opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by the massive double doors banging open once again.

“Healer!” Siegmund von Gehrig shouted as he dragged a bloodied Cora Reynolds with him through the threshold. “Cora’s been hit pretty bad, she needs a healer, _now!”_

“I’m fine,” Cora managed weakly, though she winced when she fell too far behind Siegmund and wrenched her arm in the process.

“Quinn,” Caspar called, numbly, and one of his cohort snapped to attention, “do your thing.”

Annette’s stomach sank as she drank in the sight of two of her students, bruised and bloodied, leaning on each other in the mouth of the mess hall. “Siegmund, report!” she managed.

The wyvern rider’s face broke out into a fierce grin. “Hilda’s safe and away, professor!”

Caspar froze midway through getting up from the table. “She is?”

“Check his head for a concussion,” Markus called to the healer, “would you?”

“What?” Siegmund blinked at him. “I’m fine, professor.” He tapped at the blood matted in his hair and staining the side of his face. “This isn’t my blood.”

“It’s Siegmund, right?” Caspar called.

The boy stiffened. “Er, yes, General von Bergliez?“

“Siegmund,” Caspar said with a nod, “what happened to you after Annette sent you to the stables?”

“Hilda was attacked while trying to get to her wyvern,” Siegmund said. “They were wearing your uniforms and looked like your guys, but, uh, I didn’t think you’d order your own men to attack your wife?”

Caspar snorted, but there was no mirth in it. “Good thought.”

Siegmund finally relinquished his hold on Cora as the healer settled her onto a table to better assess her wounds. “Cora tackled the first guy who swung at us and stole his axe, and that’s where she got wounded. I took it and covered Hilda’s escape,” he added. “She’s long gone.”

Cora grimaced. “Seconded.”

“Was Professor von Engel with you?” Annette asked.

Siegmund shook his head. “No, ma’am!”

“Von Gehrig, be reasonable,” Markus said. “You took a shield-bash to the face.”

Siegmund’s brow furrowed. “I just… answered her question?”

He glanced from his professor, the Imperial general’s son who always seemed to stick his nose into other people’s business, to his other professor, the Faerghusi swordsman who very nearly had been replaced by the governor of Western Adrestia, apparently.

And he realized: “You’re lying.”

“Oh, don’t start with this accusing everyone of being the enemy,” Markus said, exasperated. “Next we’ll be arguing it isn't _really_ Professor Fraldarius.”

_"Lupus non timet canem latrantem,”_ Felix said, immediately.

Markus looked aggressively put out as the old language rose through the hall.

“What does that mean, anyway?” Caspar asked, and Markus jumped.

“It’s the motto of House Fraldarius,” Annette said. “‘The wolf does not fear the barking dog.’”

Caspar’s hoarse laughter cut sharply through the room. “Leon, Finn,” he called to two of his men over his shoulder, “go find the truth and report back.”

The two of them nodded—“Right!”—and hustled out of the hall.

“This is absurd,” Markus snapped. “Are you really going to believe two _children_ over me?”

“Yeah, I am,” Caspar said, his fire returning. “I was a Garreg Mach student myself when we joined the Empress’ War. Technically, I never even graduated.”

He slid gingerly from the table, his gait labored as he crossed the disarrayed mess hall. “But while we sort that out, we’ve got one more to deal with.” 

Ellie caught on faster than most everyone else, reaching down to hoist Cornelia into a sitting position.

Caspar raised his hand with a grimace, and made a battle-sign the Old Guard instantly recognized. “Felix. With me.”

Felix moved to meet him in front of Cornelia.

Grimacing, Caspar hefted his axe onto his shoulder once again. “I’m gonna tell Felix to remove your gag,” the general said, “and then you’re going to tell me what this was all about. And if I don’t like your answer, or you don’t answer me, I’ll collect your fucking head.”

“ _Really,_ Caspar!” Markus’ stunned voice floated across the room. “Think about what you’re doing, here.”

“Caspar, please don’t make me agree with Markus,” Annette said. “That’s the _governor.”_

“Yeah, I don’t think it is,” Caspar said. “Could just be someone wearing her face.”

The way Cornelia’s eyes widened told Felix everything he needed to know.

But still, Caspar continued. “Besides, Edelgard trusts my judgement. That’s why she put me here, after all. If I tell her Cornelia Arnim’s death was necessary, she won’t tell me I’m wrong.” 

He glanced to Felix, and the swordsman made short work of Ellie’s quick-gag. Cornelia spat on the ground a few times, and Ellie winced, just above her.

“You foolish boy,” Cornelia growled. “She will _slaughter_ you.”

Caspar cocked an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to scare me? You might have just killed my wife, and my daughter is long gone; there’s nothing more Edelgard can do to me.”

Cornelia stared at him for a long moment, and Caspar stared right back.

A breeze swept into the hall, ruffling collars and skirt hems, and Felix’s hair stood on end. His instincts screamed at him to behead this woman before she could say a damn word, but he stayed his hand.

Waiting.

“Myson,” she finally said with a heavy sigh, “give it up. We’re all over the shop.”

At that moment, three things happened at once: Markus gave an irritated roar, and runes began dancing in the air around him; Caspar lunged towards Cornelia, bringing his axe around with him; and Faustine switched her dagger to reverse grip and slashed at Not-Eberhard’s throat.

And a moment later, three more things happened, all at once: the acrid tang of dark magic filled the air; Caspar’s axe clanged against the tiled floor of Arianrhod; and Not-Eberhard’s form was swallowed by dark magic.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then—

“Well, shit,” said Caspar.


End file.
